


"Bowery Nightingale" A tale of Nightingale's Odyssey series

by ShadowcrestNightingale



Series: Nightingale's Odyssey [6]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Bowery life, Classism, Creativity, Disasters, Discrimination, Epidemics, Gen, Hope, Music, Period-Typical Racism, Poverty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 75,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowcrestNightingale/pseuds/ShadowcrestNightingale
Summary: Trapped in the Bowery Erik embraces his current status as a shunned immigrant and does what he must to get by. He plays his violin as a street musician alongside another social outcast, Blanjini, a blind exiled Romanian Jew. Their sessions among the impoverished melting pot include the raucous Saturday night street parties. Bonds are tested when an unwelcome visitor threatens lives and it seems only thing can lift the spirits of those impacted: the Bowery Nightingale.
Series: Nightingale's Odyssey [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/868641
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This tale fits into the world of my Nightingale's Odyssey series. It's set in the first book, “Shadowcrest's Hammer”, and takes place between Chapter 17 and 18. For those who have not read it, or for those who have but would like a reminder, here is what is relevant in the previous chapters. Erik and Nadir secretly fled Paris after the Phantom faked his death in Christine's arms leaving her to a life with Raoul. After the wintry voyage concealed as cargo on an ocean steamer they arrive in Manhattan illegally. Nadir, using some of Erik's money but limited in his ability to communicate, could only secure housing in the Bowery. The two share a lousy two room apartment on the top floor of a fourth story tenement building that leaves much to be desired. The Bowery is polluted, overcrowded as immigrants of all ethnic backgrounds are forced there, and has no gas lighting nor clean well water. Their downstairs neighbor, a woman named Chastity, works as a harlot. After a sour start she has become friends, and shown some affection for Nadir. It is the year 1883, and Erik's attempts to gain notoriety though his architecture have ultimately failed due to the condition of his attire and his immigrant status. Recently a desperate Erik discovered that he could play his Stradivarius violin on the street corner and earn money, primarily to feed his opium addiction. In doing so, he happened across a blind Romanian Jew named Blanjini, not his true name, but he reveals rather little about himself other than having fled his homeland due to religious persecution. The elder man plays an aged violin he made with his own hands, used to be a court musician, and proves very well read—prior to losing his sight in a factory accident. He and Erik have become fast friends through their music and shared tragedy that neither wishes to dwell on. On weekdays he and Erik play selections fit for concert halls on the Bowery street corner beneath the elevated trains to earn coins from passersby. On Saturday Erik has come to take part in a neighborhood tradition, he used to shun, the Saturday Nights on the Bowery, a raucous street party with a melding of international music, food, alcohol and all manners of sinful behavior. It is what is knitting the community together in their mutual suffering. To those who hear the strange masked violinist, he is known as the Bowery Nightingale, a nickname that stuck after Blanjini first called him Nightingale for the bird's literary significance. Blanjini does not know Erik's real name either. But through his connection with the old man, Erik has endured an ego check and come to terms with his current lot. At the moment, he is once again considered one of dregs of society. WARNING: I have always aimed for appropriate historical representation, as accurate as possible. This means there will be depictions of discrimination that were commonplace during this era: racism, sexism, classism, and religious discrimination themes will come into the plot. I am by no means excusing the behavior of the times, simply depicting it.

_ **** _

_ **Chapter 1** _

_ **** _

_**~Saturday Night on the Bowery~** _

Every eye fixed on the blank canvas of the growing night. Packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the rusty iron of the elevated trains, the impoverished immigrants stood ignoring the filth of the gutters and the putrid odors pervading the air. Saturday night meant one thing to all of them, and the anticipation pressed them all together into a tense throng.

“One …” A young boy hugged an iron beam and pointed up as a star appeared in the sky. Below him, a milky-eyed man dressed in a worn tunic with a wide, once colorful, sash tied around his waist, sat against the beam. A violin polished by the oils of his hands lay across his knees, the bow freshly rosined.

In the midst of the crowd whispers in a multitude of dialects traveled in waves. Men, women, and children; all poor immigrants deemed unfit for the more reputable neighborhoods, gathered in their ragged splendor. Calloused hands held coins, many a belly called out for the festivities to begin. But not until the proper time.

A young girl tugged on her mother's dress sleeve nearly knocking the tin whistle from her eager grip. “Ma, do ya think he'll be here tonight?”

“Who, darlin'?”

“Him. I don't see him yet.” Her wide eyes wrinkled the freckles on her cheeks.

Her mother smiled. “Lass, I don't know who you mean.”

Standing on her tiptoes, she leaned out, only her grip on the iron beam kept her from falling. “You know, the bird.”

Within earshot Blanjini, the violinist, chuckled. Though he did not speak their Gaelic, the Romanian picked up the one word he needed, and the child's eager tone conveyed enough. A child's voice he knew from her prior improvised singing to his violin in the daytime hours. Even if she wouldn't understand, he assured, “He will come.”

“Two!” The boy's heartbeat entered his voice as he spied the second star.

The mother turned her head, bright red curls falling over her ragged shawl. She picked up enough of the old man's words to answer, “Who?”

Slowly, Blanjini tucked his violin beneath his chin, preparing for the boy's cue. His smile deepened the age lines on his face. His eyes took in nothing, but it left him all the more observant. Oh yes, Blanjini knew he would be here, just like every Saturday since he had first bent to the call of the music. How could such a soul avoid the temptation?

Blanjini did not answer the woman. He raised sightless eyes to the heavens, bow to strings, fingers in the position of the first chord; and waited as everyone held their breath.

“Three!” The boy shouted, scrambling to keep his hold as he pointed at a third star winking in the fading daylight.

A violin chord fractured the night followed by a slow, teasing series of notes. It did not come from Blanjini's instrument. The source higher up on the iron crossbeams of the elevated train, about halfway to the top. Blanjini smiled even as his hand hitched on the first chord.

“As I said,” Blanjini shifted his fingers to the answering harmony, letting the first violin take the lead in the call and response, “he would appear.”

Applause and cheers rent the air as the crowd located the elusive musician standing easily on his perch, a silhouette against the twilight. The wind ruffled his cloak and shifted the woolen vest he wore over the rough faded blue henley shirt. His raven black hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, shimmered with silver streaks. Waxing moonlight caught the dirt stained once white leather mask that covered everything above his upper lip. They knew, only by familiarity, that beneath his closed eyelids two different colored eyes peered out. The left a deep, nearly black, brown. The right an icy blue that gave his uneven stare an eerie feeling. In his hands not just any violin, but an antique Stradivari sang at his bidding with the voice of angelic grace.

The perch seemed precarious, and the mother gasped. Her daughter grinned and thrust her finger into the air towards him. “Ma! Look, there he is! The bird, the songbird!”

His cloak fluttered like wings as the lithe man leapt down to join the rest of the gathered musicians. He never missed a stroke in time with Blanjini's harmonized call and response, the tones toying off one another in the promise of a wild chase. On solid ground, the man offered the blind violinist an elegant half-bow, not at all in mockery but in true reverence.

Surrounded by an eclectic bunch of musicians bearing various instruments, Blanjini continued the teasing game and lowered the neck of his violin in a mimicry of a bow. “I knew you'd be joining us again, Nightingale.”

Even his laugh was lyrical as he toyed with the strings, just warming up in the evening's stuffy humid air. He answered in a fluid Romanian tongue, “Come now, my dear Blanjini. You yourself know Aoide's lure is beyond resistible.”

“Indeed, for a creature comprised of measure. Though some doubted you would come, I was certain you would spread your wings this eve.”

“Enough wasting the night on vapid words.” He pulled his bow to the end, pausing with his arm as far as it could go. “Our darling mistresses wish to sing. Let us get on with it.”

“As you will, Nightingale.” Blanjini's violin sang in tandem, matching the vigorous musical throes of the chase as the patterns wound one around the other. Two master musicians fit for the grandest courts tapped their worn shoes in the squalor of the slums. But on this eve no one cared for their wretched conditions. It was all about the music and celebration of one more week evading the Grim Reaper's grasp.

The little girl leapt off her mother's lap to spin and dance with the gathered musicians improvising to the leading violins. Her own voice joined others as they uttered in their own languages, “Blanjini and the Bowery Nightingale.”

_**~Erik~** _

With each slash of my bow my heart took flight in the cascade of notes dancing on the strings. As I poured my soul onto my Stradivari's humming strings, I heard the marked name echoing. Some time ago that would have been sufficient to still my hand, force me to retreat to the relative solitude of my apartment. But not now.

Bowery Nightingale.

The alternative would be to tell them my singular name, a fact few were privy to. I was determined that remain so.

Besides, the charming little birds were rather significant in many a worldly story. Not that _I_ particularly wanted to be remembered now. My days of being a vain showman were over. At least for the matter of manipulation. I played now for another reason, fiddling on a remarkable violin like a common minstrel of old, because my life depended on it.

This had become my choice. As the music of the collective orchestra thrummed through my veins it lent me a vibrancy I had forgotten I possessed. The bright dancing folk tunes pervading the air every Saturday night were no longer merely outside my window, I emerged among them … one of them. In the gutters they gathered speaking different tongues. But their instruments did not care for country of origin. The cittern harmonized with the uillean pipes, the bodhran kept the rhythm as well as the doumbek. One culture's tune melded into the next as we shared in creation to counter loss.

The music covered the growling of underfed stomachs, a balm to those nursing wounds, lifted the spirits of those with one less soul beneath their rooves in this slum where soot permeated everything. For this brief stolen moment when we closed our eyes we were lifted free of our wretched existence.

Blanjini could not have been more correct, I had come to spread my wings.

So, I silently bid them call me Nightingale, and I let them be the emperors in the darkness of this festival of survival.

In the steamy night, before the first phase of our violin duel completed I had already drenched my shirt with sweat. Not that I would permit that to hinder me. I had been subjected to worse in the past. The music called me onward, a wild Irish tinged piece with our fiddle duel at the core. Blanjini rose to the challenge, the smile betraying his thrill as his nimble fingers raced across the strings against mine. The other musicians panted and fought to keep up, some resorting to simplified progressions to keep the base time. They grinned, none the less.

In a swirling mass the crowd danced amidst our kingdom of soot and iron. The waxing moon's rays cut through the crossbeams to light our celebration. Sawing away at the final movement in our concoction, I leaned against the iron column. A young girl with vibrant red hair twirled, her simple skirt flowing out as she threw her head back. Arms out full, one bare foot left the ground as she closed her eyes and smiled, lost to this world.

I wanted to be wherever she was. I knew this child. Blanjini and I had been subjected to her insatiable curiosity this past week when she had happened upon our daily performances on the Bowery street corners. Betha Sheehan, and where she was her little brother would inevitably follow.

I glanced to my side to find the rambunctious Ronan riding his father's knee up and down as he kept time. The Sheehans. I had come to know the recent arrivals through their loquacious daughter. Brennan Sheehan, a wiry fellow currently playing the uillean pipes, worked long hours at a factory. Enda, the sweet bright haired lass at his side playing a tin whistle with lightning fast fingers, was a seamstress at a factory. Betha knew this because her mother showed her needlework on the days when natural light permitted. Now Enda watched her daughter dancing, the glee flowed from her eyes as she played the merry tune.

I didn't want it to end. The spirals of colors, the laughter filling the air. I may have been dauntless, but it was not the case for the other flagging musicians. Wrapping the tune to a gradual decline, I pulled the bow and let the final cascade draw onward until without additional motion the strings fell silent.

Blanjini clapped a hand on my shoulder. “What a fine chase that was. Where did you first hear that?”

I shrugged, turning the tuning peg as the strings had warmed with the vigorous play. “At a European faire somewhere many a year ago, the name is lost to me.” I did a test draw finding it much more to my liking.

Betha skipped up to me, one finger hanging from her mouth. “Mister Bowery Nightingale?”

Such a short little child, not even half my height, I had to crouch down to her level.

“Can you play again?”

I swung my bow lazily and raised an eyebrow, though the child could hardly have seen it for my mask, something that never seemed to intimidate her. “Remarkable formality from such a petite lady.”

She blushed beneath the sooty smudges on her cheeks and grinned, showing a missing front tooth.

Brennan gestured to her, juggling the short-panted boy on his knee who tried to grab the uillean pipe's chanter from his hand. “Betha, come to me now, leave the good man alone.”

I waved a dismissive hand to him. “What have we come here to do if not to play.” Turning to Blanjini I switched to Romanian, grateful for the practiced ease that permitted me to switch tongues. “We have a request for more dancing music.”

Blanjini searched his gray beard with a finger until he rubbed his chin for a moment. “Dancing music? Well, I'm not certain I know any more.” He winked a milky eye in my direction. “There is this one.”

He set his bow to the strings and instantly all the musicians fixed their attention on him. Myself included as I picked out the central melody. A sultry Romany tune with a lilting tempo, one I had heard and played a few times, but it too had been ages. I silently fingered the chords the first time through and wove the harmony around his violin on the second. Once more the air filled with music and the rhythm of dancing feet.

I had truly lost myself in the music for who knew how many songs before the first round of alcohol laden mugs made their why through the musician's ranks. Seated on a railing, I gave it a good sniff to be certain the concoction wasn't the rotgut that had nearly finished me off the first night I had engaged in this affair. Some form of ale, this one was safe. The flavor was certainly no fine wine, but it would suffice. With my violin and bow grasped in one hand, I sipped the ale from the other.

Nadir wandered my way, the Persian's jade eyes glassy and his breath kissed with whiskey. Indeed, I had been a bad influence on him since we had fled Paris. He went a bit cross-eyed as he attempted to fix the lapel of his jacket. “Have you seen … ummm … ” He held a finger up and blinked slowly, his mouth moving but no words left it.

I cocked my head, waiting patiently. Oh I did not envy his headache on the morrow. All the more reason I took great care which gratitude I partook. I only needed one day with my head stuck out the window praying for the relief of death to learn my lesson. Nadir, it seemed, was a decidedly different story. After a long time of false starts I spared him, clearly in his imbibed liberation he could permit himself a little more courage for the one person he could possibly be looking for. “Chastity?” The harlot neighbor who lived one floor below us. Who also proved to be a remarkable seamstress, I had her to thank for fitting my secondhand garments. Oh how I missed my finely tailored suits. Clothing I dared not wear out now with such limited resources. What I did still possess could hardly be considered in good repair.

Upon hearing her name, he nodded and glanced around. “Yes. Yes, have you seen my Chastity?”

Fortunately the cover of the mug saved him as I mastered my mirthful fit at his unfortunate phrasing. Once I was no longer choking on the urge to laugh, I lowered the mug and glanced around. “I am certain she is around. If you do not find her soon, once the circle starts you will know where she may be found.”

He teetered on his feet, too short to see much over the crowd before he wandered off. I should be forced to collect him before the night was through, if only to make certain he made it home again.

The clearing of a throat beside me caught my attention. I turned to find Brennan Sheehan's gaze fixed on me. In Gaelic he inquired, “That was not the same as I speak, nor the gypsy Blanjini.”

I set my empty mug aside. “Romany.” I corrected. “Blanjini is Romanian, not a gypsy.”

Brennan cocked his head, lost for words for a long moment before he held up a hand. “My apologies. Here I am only a few weeks in this new world and making a grand ass of myself in public. I understand nothing, Lad. While ya … well, ya understand us all.”

“I do.” I leaned back and gazed up at the stars shining in the midnight sky.

“How?”

There was no easy answer to this. Not without dredging up portions of my past I wished not to revisit. Instead the violin in my hand, my sweet constant companion, held the answer. “Words are just like music. A violin can play everything from the stately operas to fiddle the wildest jigs. It is the same instrument. The same notes at the core. Only the music is different.”

Betha's small hand rested on my knee drawing my eyes to her as she twisted her foot in the dirt. “You're silly, songbird.”

Such childish innocence. I smiled at her.

She giggled and spun away, trying to grasp her father's uillean pipes. “Can I play, Da?”

Brennan held out the chanter and guided her fingers to it. “Now, when I push the bellows, move yer fingers like this, then to this, and finally to this. Got it?”

With childish clumsiness, she copied his actions a couple times before nodding. “I got it.”

“Alright, off we go.” Pressing on the bellows strapped to his arm, the pipes groaned to life. A rather sickly one guided by Betha's hesitant attempts on the holes.

I fought the urge to cover my ears. Not that the pipes themselves were at fault. A well-played set of pipes could be captivating. However, a poorly played one sounded like a butcher torturing a cow. This was undoubtedly the latter.

Crestfallen with her efforts, Betha released the chanter to his hand and buried her face from the gawking of the onlookers. Brennan ruffled her hair. “Not bad for yer first try, my wee one.”

“Really?”

Enda held out her tin whistle. “Why don't ya try mine first.”

The whistle's shrill shriek broke through the crowd as Betha blew hard enough her eyes shut from the pressure. None nearby were spared the cringing, not even myself. Blanjini covered his ears, the poor fellow.

I held up a hand. “Softer. The tin whistle is a wind instrument and the muses are shy to new musicians. You wouldn't want to scare Aoide away.”

“Who?” Betha leaned forward, the instrument in her white knuckled grasp.

With my violin and bow leaning against my chest, I rested my wrist on my cocked knee and noted Blanjini's smile as I'd mentioned the name again. “Aoide, the muse of music. She comes to those with the gift. But she is a timid creature who is bid by a soft voice and a gentle caress.”

Betha glanced between her father and I. “But you all play loud and fast.”

I bowed my head and eyed her sideways. “Indeed, but that comes from spending time with her. Quite, and soft. Learning to control our gifts through her subtle lessons. Speed and complexity come with time. No one is born a master, we all must engage in the give and take of dance to learn.”

She took a deep breath, closed her lips over the mouthpiece and gently blew. With a slow, hesitant shift of her fingers a series of three notes hung in the air. Her eyes lit up. “Ma! Da! Did ya hear? I did it!” She leapt into Enda's arms and hugged her.

Brennan ruffled her hair and glanced my way, mouthing, _Thank you!_

I nodded my head with a smile. “A gift for a rather masterful musician. You are quite talented with your pipes.”

Brennan held up the aged instrument. “I'm the third generation. These once belonged to my grandfather. Who taught my father. Who in turn taught me back before we left Ireland.” His eyes lost a bit of their spark. He stared at his fingers on the chanter. “They promised this was a land of opportunity.”

“Indeed. There are plenty of opportunities,” I gestured to the north. “for those with the resources to seize them.”

He gazed at his wife and children wandering off into the crowd in search of some treat their few pennies could procure. Brennan shook his head, glancing at the callouses on his hands, the filth of the factory pressed into his skin. “Where are the open fields, the farmlands?”

With my bow I pointed. “West, as rumor has it.”

He followed the gesture and his shoulders only sank. “There is a river there.”

“Indeed.”

“Have you been across there?”

I laid my head back against the iron column. “Would I still be trapped here if I had?”

Brennan sighed, his fingers started to play on the chanter. Before long his elbow pumped the bellows and a slow, wistful melody came to life. A song of dreams. Dreams still held, and not yet broken.

I lifted my violin and harmonized. Soon others joined us.

Glancing over his shoulder where the crowd had swallowed his family, Brennan whispered, “I brought them to escape the struggles of our old country. We came here for a new life.”

Still drawing my bow, I muttered, “Welcome to disappointment. You are in good company here.”

These wretched tenements held our lot captive, physically. But on nights like these we stole pleasure, escaping through creation. Along the Bowery in the teaming throng of the destitute, we offered to one another fleeting indulgence. Food, alcohol, gambling, sins of the flesh; all could be found along the cobblestones from the light of the third star of evening into the small hours of the morning. And all of it accompanied by the greatest balm—music.


	2. Chapter 2

_ **Chapter 2** _

_**~Erik~** _

Dawn broke the storm clouds into glorious towers painted in an array of colors. A welcome change from the dingy caverns of the east lower side that may have once borne hues other than browns and grays. I hung out our fourth story window with my foot hooked on an inside ledge to keep from plummeting to certain doom, as Nadir repeatedly put it.

There were days I suspected he feared his own shadow, the poor fool.

Even in the early morning the long metal hook shared its collected warmth in my hands. The storm didn't break the stifling heat. The downpour provided more humidity, if that could be believed. I ignored most of this, after the one blessing it did provide. Carefully I plucked the handle of my prize and edged the metal bucket closer, taking great pains not to tip it. Heavy. Almost unwieldy. The moment I had it inside the window I knew why. I had harvested a full bucket of rain water … and soot.

Well, a problem easily solved. Stoking up the coal stove, I placed my contraption of twisted tubes on top and filled the still just shy of topping it off. Maneuvering the rig so this sat directly over the heat, I clamped it all in place and primed the terracotta cooling chamber positioned beneath a lower catch vessel. I knelt down to gauge where the final tube protruded over a small barrel for the purified water. I flipped the hinged lid back, the contents nearly empty.

That was when I heard the first grumble. Not the semblance of a word issuing from a mouth. This groan came from a far less persuadable voice. The source much lower. And of course, I hardly glanced to the figure collapsed against the wall beneath the open window, due to Nadir's current lack of the vertical plane, certainly as low as a human could get.

Stirring up the coal fire, I listened to the growing chorus issuing from Nadir's irate belly. The twisting sound akin to angry cats clawing one another to escape captivity.

I leaned closer to the distiller and adjusted a clamp.

The groaning pitched higher. Any moment now.

Silence.

“Three,” I muttered softly. “Two.” My bare foot edged backward, toes hooked a handle. “And one.”

Like clockwork, Nadir's eyes shot open and he rolled forward half onto his hands and knees coming into alignment to intercept the path where my foot flung the bucket that served more or less as a chamber pot. He was fortunate I'd had the decency to empty it last night in anticipation of his reckless abandon. Bile mixed with a concoction of alcohol slopped into the hollow vessel, the walls amplifying his pitiful retching.

I tended the distiller, blowing over the terracotta pipe to speed the evaporation. This was trickier in humid conditions. Stirring the coals again, I slammed the door to the stove and was rewarded by a pained cry from my beleaguered roommate.

“By Allah! Why is there so much pain?”

I swung toward him, striking the metal water bucket with the poker. The clang reverberated. “Praise be, he lives!” I did nothing to soften my tone.

Nadir cradled his head in his hands, tears in his bloodshot eyes. “Shh! Please shh... ohhh … stay still, room. Stay quiet. Why are the mouse paws thundering like elephants?”

He had a gift for words, but only in such poor states as this. Throwing my head back I boomed with laughter.

Startled by the sound, Nadir clawed his way up to the windowsill. His arms embraced his head as he leaned out, his olive tone growing ever more ominous. This evidenced the severity of his hangover, the man was petrified of heights. “Why must you do this to me?”

I came to his side and leaned against the sill, a warm breeze played with the hairs on my arms, my sleeves rolled back to the elbows. I grinned within his eyesight. “Do what, my dear Daroga?”

That darkened him. Only for a moment. Then the retching belch tore his alarmed gaze out the window. More unfortunate contents of his belly poured down into the street below. Followed by an outraged cry from the passerby. Nadir panted, his hands gripped the splintering wood before he fought to get the words out. “You do this on purpose. And … and you take pleasure in it.”

I brought my hands together in a loud clap. “Me? Enjoying tormenting others, specifically you? Perish the thought.”

He gritted his teeth and attempted a heated glare. The complaints of his stomach swiftly abated his effort. Forehead came to his folded hands and he groaned wordlessly.

“My dear friend, why must you blame me for your suffering? It is you who provides my window of opportunity time and time again.”

“You … you don't have to … take it. Ohh!”

I laughed and swept my hand out over the street. “Ah, but there are so few sources of mirth. And you open yourself up to it so readily. It is hardly my fault you lack the ability to learn from your mistakes.”

His shaky fist pounded on the sill in a gesture that lacked any power. “This isn't funny.”

“Dear, dear Daroga. So often you berated me for my short fallings.” A knock at the door drew me from the sill. “I merely repay a longstanding debt to you.”

His grumbled reply was lost.

It didn't take long to cross the main room that served as most of our rather humble dwelling. My drafting desk, which had been cobbled together from some shipping crates, took up a good portion of the wall. The materials lay scattered, abandoned in recent times. A few rough shelves held some supplies, including my stone working tools. At the moment they proved useless. Behind a half open door we had the luxury of a separate bed chamber, a term I use wryly. The room was hardly large enough to hold a pitiful mattress wide enough for us to sleep, back to back. As much as I slept in short intervals. Last night for the handful of hours I'd had it to myself, since Nadir collapsed by the window where I'd conveniently left him. He never did thank me for that.

My hand hovered near my hidden blade as I opened the door. An unneeded gesture as Chastity smiled up at me. “Good morning, Erik.”

Relaxing my wariness, I took a step back in the offer of a bow. “Good morning, _Mademoiselle._ ”

She giggled into her hand, a flash of blush on her cheeks. “Oh my, French. When you say that I feel so … regal.”

“Merely a proper greeting, I assure you.”

Chastity smoothed out her simple cotton dress in the semblance of a proper lady, tugging up the corner of her skirt. “If we are to do this proper, dear sir, I have come to inquire upon the health of your roommate. Is he awake?”

I glanced over my shoulder as Nadir attempted to pry himself from the support of the windowsill. A procedure that failed and ended with him half-catching his weight and stumbling back against the splintering wood with a rain of Persian curses that would be improper to translate for the fairer sex. “He is most certainly awake. However, his current health is another matter.”

Chastity entered at my gesture. I shut the door behind her as she made her way through our dingy hovel of a home toward the greenish-hued man. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “To be expected. I did warn him not to take Willis's Rotgut. But once Nadir downed the first … ”

I folded my arms. “It left him prey to the second.”

“And a third.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A pity the man displays no self restraint.”

Nadir eyed me and rasped, “Shut up, Erik!”

I lifted a shoulder and let it fall even as he whimpered.

“You are entirely too cheery.”

“Well, I am not the one whipped by whiskey.”

“It's not fair, why am I left to this, and you … you are always … always ...”

“Upright.” I finished for him, shifting the cooking pot filled with the remnants of a cumulative stew closer to the stove, making preparations for the day. “Because unlike you, I only had a couple of ales last evening, instead of reaching the bottom of someone's whiskey barrel.” I could not help myself, for a moment I simply hummed the melody, the violin in my hands for tuning. But before long I played the tune with the words of the old drinking song, “And when I woke all in the morning, I found myself on some strange bed. I tried to dress but I was not able, for Nancy Whiskey had me by the head. O whiskey, whiskey, Nancy Whiskey. Whiskey, whiskey, Nancy-o.”

Grinding his teeth, Nadir eyed me through his white-knuckled hand. “You are truly an insufferable ass!” He blinked at the violin. “Where are you going?”

“It is Sunday.” I swung the cloak over my shoulders. “The good patrons of the churches will be airing themselves shortly after their weekly services. Services that are bound to leave them in a generous state of charity, and we are short on ingredients. Soon we shall have to start another pot if not for a fresh infusion. A miracle the cabbage has lasted a week of reboiling without dissolving. Mind the stove. When the water finishes move the rig and put the cooking pot back on.”

He cringed at the additional heat. “Erik, it's stifling, why must you add to the misery? Only a fool would stoke a fire in this!”

I ignored his repeated complaint as the first trickles of clean water splashed into the barrel. Water he would be sorely in need of shortly. “I will return by sunset.”

“Sunset?”

“Yes.” I put on my socks and shoes, trying to ignore the thinning soles. I'd been feeling a great deal more of the cobblestones of late. “This is the day of rest for the wealthy, a good day to venture closer to their affluent dwellings. A much longer walk. Thank you for coming up as I requested, Chastity, take good care of him.”

She waved to me as I opened the creaking door. Taking a mug she held it under the stream of freshly distilled water.

“I am a grown man!” Nadir shot back, “I am hardly in need of a nursemaid.” One step proved him wrong. Were it not for Chastity, he would have kissed the floorboards.

She held him steady, with Nadir's mug at the ready. He had a long day ahead of him. Chastity edged him forward. “Come, let's get you to the bed.”

I swung out the door and down the rickety flights of stairs, paying no heed to the complaints of the others in our building roused by the creaking boards, out into the crowded Bowery.

The muck-caked cobblestone street certainly wasn't as packed as the other days. Nadir remained far from the only one to court the spirits on Saturday night. As I strode along, avoiding the various debris floating in the flooded streets mixed with horse excrement, I imagined the number of souls lying in fetal positions behind the walls.

I recalled my first Sunday after when I joined in that particular torment, recent enough. _Never_ again.

While Nadir repeated his folly on a weekly basis, I now left him with the reason why. In the small hours of the night he had confessed his desire to spend time with Chastity. Meetings that required a decent dose of liquid courage.

At least he would live. Albeit in perfect misery.

Wandering along beneath the rumble of the elevated train for a number of blocks I came upon Blanjini with his sleeve pressed against his nose. No doubt from the rather foul odor pervading the air. As the crowd parted the source became obvious. The bloated carcass of a draft horse lie where it had fallen, valuable tack removed from the massive creature. The heat intensified the effect, bringing tears to my eyes, a true feat considering what I had endured in my past.

As I approached, he shifted his milky eyes toward me. “Ah, Nightingale. I had hoped you'd be early. There is something in the air today.”

“Another victim.” I too brought my sleeve to cover part of my mask cutting some of the odor. “Looked to be an older draft horse.”

“Wonder how many weeks it will take for someone to get rid of the carcass?”

A full draft was quite the task to deal with, sometimes requiring a street butchering. “Hopefully swifter than last time. Spare us all the sounds of the dogs fighting over the rotting meat. Well, our plan to go northeast toward the park today proves prudent.”

“At least it should smell a good deal better.”

The shrill laughter of children cut through the crowd. Several of them converged on the carcass with sticks in their hands. They poked at the bloated stomach and watched the legs shift from the disturbance. Despite the stench, a couple of the ragged bunch crawled onto the beast and pretended to ride its side. I could not help but notice that Betha and Ronan were examining the horse's teeth with great glee.

“Children.” I sighed. “They can make a plaything of any object.”

Blanjini raised an eyebrow. “Are they … ?”

“They are.”

He cringed, grasping his walking stick and turning toward the northeast. “Lead on, Nightingale. Our target is farther than I have been.”

“Certainly not for me, though I hardly recall going there, merely walking back home.” When Blanjini cocked his head my way, I did not reply having already said more of the event than I had desired. I placed a hand on his walking stick to help guide him.

The slap of bare feet in the muck made me pause. “Wait!” a high pitched voice called out. In a moment Betha danced around us, her brother on her heels. “Blanjini. Nightingale. You came out to play today?”

Ronan gazed up at me, his pudgy hands reaching for my bow. I pulled it back away from him. “Sorry, little one.” Turning to Betha I gestured up the street. “We have, but not here today.”

For a brief moment she pouted. But then, bouncing on her heels setting her waving curls in motion, she declared, “Guess what, we're out playing too.”

I glanced around for Brennan or Enda. The child misread me.

“My place is over there. We live on the second floor. See the window?”

She pointed to one with the broken pane. That window belonged to a crumbling building, wooden boards dry rotted and sagging. The foundation itself sunk into the mire in one corner tilting the floors. “I do see.” Was all I could find to say. In truth the building I lived in was not much better. But at least ours had stone walls.

At her side, Ronan tugged on her sleeve and looked back at the horse. “Wanna play.”

Taking on an air of authority, Betha wagged a finger in the air. “Now, you haveta listen to what I say. Ma said so.”

I leaned down. “Speaking of your parents, where might they be?”

Distracted by holding onto her brother's shirt as he struggled to return to the horse, she glanced back at me. “Da is at the factory today. And Ma is at her job too. She's making lots of clothes. If it's not too dark tonight she's gonna show me a new stitch.”

Blanjini leaned on his stick, listening. I had no clue how much he picked up through his language barrier, but the man was certainly perceptive. Sorrow lined his features.

As Blanjini and I were forced to play for charity most of the days of week to earn enough to get by, of course their parents were forced to labor today. This was the common lot we all shared, barely able to scrape by. Like so many of the children swarming the streets day after day, they were left to themselves. Not even half their full grown height, with no one to look after them.

How familiar. My shoulders fell a bit beneath my cloak.

I placed a finger beneath her chin, her eyes filled with wonder. “Take care to stay out of trouble, Betha, for the sake of your little brother.”

Ronan turned to me with bravado. “I no liddle!”

I ruffled his hair. “Indeed you are. Now run along, both of you.” Rising to my feet, I bid them good day as they giggled and waved to me. In our wake they dashed off back to the other children.

Blanjini tapped along at my side as we ventured north up the Bowery toward decidedly fresher air. “Tell me we are not leading them astray.”

“How did we become pied pipers when neither of us plays a wind instrument?” I glanced back to find them engaged with the rest of the rambunctious children. “Not yet, anyway. Swift now, before they get any other ideas and we end up watching them the rest of the day.” I nearly regretted the turn of phrase, for Blanjini's sake.

We walked in mutual silence for many a block until ahead I spied the green oasis of Tompkins Square Park. The air had decidedly cleared the further north we ventured. The general attire profoundly changed from the secondhand ill-fitted cast offs to the tailored suits and fine dresses, each comprised of yards worth of fine fabrics. Beneath parasols patterned frills in a palette that would raise a painter's jealousy. I longed simply to caress the well crafted fabric, pining for the fine wool suits I once wore. Men perambulated about the park bowing their hats to one another. A lady on one arm, a polished metal tipped cane in the other hand. Some with children gathered around.

I do not think that I whimpered for the sight, but Blanjini cocked his head my way, suggesting I had. He inhaled and his smile grew. I took in a deep breath. “The air truly is sweeter up here. I suspect the flowering trees are the source of the fragrance.”

“That may be what _you_ notice.” He lifted one finger on the hand gripping his walking stick. “You are chasing the dragon less often these days.”

I hesitated a step, my eyes shifting to the violin in my hand. Her polished wood winked at me in the morning sunlight. I had hardly noticed, but he spoke true. Certainly I was not free of my vice, if I did not smoke opium with some regularity my unpredictable temper burned like a raging fire. Of late the frequency had diminished. I found another craving far more powerful and effective. The side effects were decidedly beneficial to those around me. Perhaps there was hope yet that one day I might be completely free of that wretched crutch.

“Nightingale?”

We had passed a full block in the time since he had spoken. I had rudely not answered. “I was … contemplating. Are you certain it is not just the difference of the air quality?”

He laughed and raised an eyebrow, replying in Yiddish, “Only a fool questions the nose of a blind dog on the trail.”

“Then, a fool I am. And a motley one at that.” … faded though the colors may be. I released a relaxed sigh. “Indeed, your observation is correct. I seem to be more compelled to chase the strings than the smoke.”

“The former produces a clearer mind.”

“And the latter does not match its balm. I am just bewildered that I had not realized it myself.”

Blanjini nodded. “To the one with his nose close to the carving he cannot see the larger picture of his strikes.”

Made worse when the carver's sanity was questionable to begin with. Close to the park now I paused across the street studying the layout. Did we dare intrude on the park itself? I had wandered here once before, blinded by tears and grappling with a deep seated fear, the beginning of turning to my old friend once more for her soothing voice. A young girl had delivered charity to me for playing, a simple coin, but it had been enough to alter my path. No one had thrown me out, though I had truly been in an ill-state at the time. At least now I was not so disheveled, slightly more presentable.

“One more crossing.” I led the way, weaving around the leisurely passing carriages. Every one of them sported finely attired folk. Many bore families in their Sunday best.

On the south edge of the park, Blanjini and I perched on a large rock and quietly tuned our violins. A few curious glances came our way, mostly from the children held back by gloved hands. I felt like a devil breaking into heaven. Green grass stretched out beneath the shade of trees and flower beds thick with blooms. Nothing grew in the Bowery, except the depth of the muck in the streets.

Our own ladies prepared and willing, I tapped my foot. Blanjini nodded his head in time. We launched into our previous made selections with great vigor, starting of course with Vivaldi's _L'Estate_. It certainly took no imagination for the summer it captured. At least here. Down in the Bowery imagining this much lush growth had been a challenge. Beneath the awning of verdant leaves our bows danced on the strings in an elegant harmonized concert of two. I closed my eyes letting memories drift back to a garden in full bloom. The lush rolling hills of Italy teaming with vineyards. Country air sweet and clean. A brief interlude in the horrors of my life. The summer.

As the piece drew to a close I opened my eyes to find a semi circle surrounding us. We had attracted a sizable audience in rapt applause. We bowed and without a pause launched into Mozart.

Coins at our feet glittered in the dappled sunlight at the end of every orchestral piece. Only a few whispers about my mask. No one attempted to remove us. Since entering the park neither Blanjini nor I had spoken a word, as agreed, we simply displayed our wares for all to hear. And, as predicted, from gloved hands the charity rained. I gathered the coins into a pouch for safekeeping and we continued to play from our vast selections of courtly music. This was not the place for folk music.

Our patrons shifted, listening for a time before drifting off to the park. But there was never a period when at least a family did not stand staring at us, not in mockery. Their eyes filled with the wonder we sparked in them written between the notes of the masters.

Blajini and I finished playing selections from Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_ when a neatly trimmed man in a pastel green vest marked with a jewel studded pin in the shape of an elaborate W, removed his hat and held it to his heart. “Truly you are both remarkably gifted. I could feel the wind off the bird's feathers in flight. Visionaries. The good Lord himself has blessed your souls, and ours with this decadence. To think, to have such a performance outside of a theater. Tell me, why have I not heard your like before?”

Did he not see our attire? We didn't belong here and the moment that spell dissipated would see us unceremoniously thrust back to the cesspit from whence we came. I cleared my throat and looked away from him, careful to banish any trace of an accent from my English. “We are members of an unusual orchestra.”

“Where do you perform?” His gloved hands crossed as they gripped the polished tip of his cane.

Oh, our stage is the aromatic Bowery every Saturday night. I could hardly disclose that. Fortune saved me as a group of men called and he turned an ear to them.

“Atherton Wellspring! My word, what are you doing here?”

He gestured to us. “I am listening to the marvelous performance of these two gentlemen.”

A robust man pointed with his cane down the road. “We were just going to the club for lunch. Would you mind joining us? I had hoped to speak with you about the state of a certain eye sore.”

He glanced our way then back toward the men. A coin fell into the grass from his hand as he turned to join them. “An eye sore, in this city? Good heavens, where?”

“My good man, we must speak of 5th avenue.”

Picking up the coin I let it join the others and heaved a sigh of relief. Only halfway through the day and too many questions. I did not relish the idea of ending up arrested for this venture.


	3. Chapter 3

_ **Chapter 3** _

_**~Erik~** _

The mid-morning sun beat down on the Bowery. The tormenting rays pierced between two buildings to find Blanjini and I in the midst of a vigorous song. I shut my eyes from the blinding light and continued to play all the more. The welcoming scent of ale drifted out from the pub's open door behind us. I longed to enter _La Porta Aperta_ to slake my thirst, but my coins had already been invested in sustenance for the remainder of the week. I may have been reduced to a pauper now, but I would not beg for a handout from those as close to the edge as I. Returned to the Bowery, for the weekdays proved too risky for the affluent, we spent our time nestled among the street carts. The scent of the putrid horse carcass still pervaded the air, however we were far enough from it now not to be left choking on each breath.

Our bows cut the final chord. The answer for our pains was two pennies lying in the muck. I bent down and plucked them up. “The vast bounty of the Bowery.”

Blanjini wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Our brethren give what they can.”

I stretched tall before dropping the coins into my pouch, to be divided later. “And in truth the scarcity of it means all the more.” A rare breeze stirred the cloak over my shoulders.

As usual the Bowery bustled with life. Men and women hawked their wares from carts nearly packed end to end, their calls in a multitude of languages comprised the chorus of the destitute. Surprisingly the melody was not half as dismal as one should expect. I had no cause to hang my head here, nor hood my mask in the shadows. Even with a passing glance injuries and deformations abounded along the rows. Missing or maimed limbs, burned or once cut scars puckered skin, ears and eyes concealed beneath some form of modest covering. Few inquired about my mask in this lot, for I was not alone in its necessity.

Idly Blanjini plucked the strings of his violin in a fanciful tune. I lifted mine to join him with a harmony when something rather small darted beside me, wrapped around my legs and vanished behind the folds of my cloak. I nearly lifted the garment when something else caught my eye, a distinct uniform headed our way cutting through the crowd. Trouble dressed in smart blue gilded with gold buttons and a bright badge. Never a good sign.

Blanjini stopped playing when I touched his shoulder, a moment before the policeman's shadow fell over him, pointing with his truncheon. “You there, have you seen a ragamuffin come running by here?”

The policeman had spoken in English, Blanjini remained seated, his eyes cast slightly downward.

Heat rose to the man's cheeks as he brandished the truncheon, his slash close to striking. I had to keep a firm grip on my nerves to remain still as he yelled, “Where is the boy?”

No change. Calm as a lake on a windless day, Blanjini ignored the man as he thrust his face close enough to leave spittle behind.

“Answer me, you foreign piece of shit!”

Weary of being privy to this insulting tirade, I held a hand in front of his face and beckoned him to look at me. It took every fiber of self control to address this inane ass in a cordial manner, “I assure you, he is not deaf. He, however, does not speak English. And if he did, he could not possibly have _seen_ anything.”

“Eh?” The officer squinted up at me before glancing at Blanjini. “Why's that?”

In Yiddish I asked him to raise his head.

The officer took a step back at the words I used, his lip curled before he spat at our feet. “Fuckin' Jew.”

There'd been no call for such language. Still, I dared not shift, though I longed to grasp my blade and school this one in manners. I cleared my throat and the officer stared at me.

“Well, at least **you** speak a civilized tongue.” He tapped his leg with the truncheon. “Have you seen a ragged boy running through here.”

“Many, actually.” I ignored his uneducated prior assumption and flicked my bow out toward the streets. “There are no less than three over there right now. And earlier a good lot of five gathered around the horse carcass. Tell me, do you know of any plans to remove that poor creature from the gutter?”

His truncheon flashed up in a clear threat to me, once more I deadened my reflexes, the quarters far too tight for a conflict. I once more consciously quenched my desire to silence him. No small feat, the itching urge flared anew, a reminder that I was fast approaching the need to partake of my sin again or someone would pay the price of my ire. The man played with fire and did not have a clue. He twisted the truncheon a hairbreadth from my chest. “Enough of that, simpleton! You know what I meant. He has escaped from the workhouse and by law must be returned. I'd been following and lost him in the crowd. There would have been a boy running by right here.”

“Indeed. Many of the children run through here with great frequency.”

The policeman's cheeks reddened. “Should have known I'd find nothing but idiots. Nothing but foreign refuse in the Bowery.” He offered me a rude noise and pushed his way further into the crowd.

My height afforded me a vantage point. When I was certain no other lawmen were in the vicinity I lifted the edge of my cloak and glanced down at the very ragamuffin he'd been after. A small boy in filthy tattered rags, face smeared with grime so thoroughly I doubted I saw any actual skin. His wide eyes pleaded with me. I addressed him in Yiddish, “What did I tell you last time, Yankel?”

Blanjini sat up and turned toward the child, holding out a hand. Yankel grasped it and collapsed into his arms, sobbing into his shirt. “Easy, boy. Hush now, you're safe.”

“It was terrible!” Yankel tugged on the rough fabric. “Don't let them take me back there, you don't understand what that workhouse is like.”

“So that's where you have been all this time.”

“I want my mama and papa back!”

Blanjini rubbed his small back. “I'm sorry, bringing your folks back is something we cannot do.”

I crouched down, my violin across my lap as I addressed the boy. “We will not send you back. But you must be more careful. I warned you about stealing.”

Blanjini jerked his milky gaze my way. Yankel's calloused hands rubbed the tears from his own eyes. “I was being careful.”

“Clearly not enough.” Thievery was often unavoidable. Right now I appreciated my own talents in that regard, as that was precisely how I obtained the coal for our stove. Not that Nadir knew that detail. To get it honestly proved too expensive. However, sneak a few coals from a load headed uptown as a cart passed, and no one noticed.

Blanjini held the waif back, running his hands over his limbs. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head. The moment Blanjini's hands touched his shoulders he shrank back with a sharp cry.

Some things were better seen than explored with fingertips. “Come now, let me see.” I held out a hand to him. Yankel shied away at first, but slowly he approached. “I will be careful.” Taking the non-existent hem of his shirt I peeled the rag up until it exposed his shoulders. His flesh stood out against the bones, detailing his frail skeleton, thinner than the last I had seen of him. The filthy flesh of his shoulders crossed with dark lines. Welts. Wounds I knew all too well. “Why did they do this?”

Yankel shuddered. His hands embraced his head as he sobbed anew. “I was tired. I'd worked the machine all day and was sore. They didn't understand my words. All I wanted was something to drink. That was it. Just a drink!”

“And so they lashed you.”

Blanjini, now privy to the unseen, scowled. “Nightingale, he cannot go back there.”

I placed a finger beneath the boy's chin and drew his face up. He sniffled, his rough hands gripping my wrists. “Please, Nightingale! I'd rather live on the streets than go back there. Don't turn me in.”

I smiled. “I would no sooner cage a bird. If I had my way such abysmal places would not even exist.”

He scraped a tear. “Why don't you have your way?”

Laughing softly, I offered the corner of my cloak for the remainder of his tears. “Because of my lot here.”

“You could tell them, you have the words. Tell the police to leave us alone.”

Blanjini shook his head. “Common words do not mean they would listen, boy.”

“Sadly, Blanjini is correct, that has been my experience too. It is why I said as little to the man searching for you. His mind was set on bringing you back. A mind like that is not so easily swayed.” … without resorting to persuasion I would rather avoid especially with my 'living conscience'. Nadir, there were times his tiresome morality interfered, and at this moment I regretted my promise to him to behave myself. I should have loved to have seen that man groveling before me.

Yankel's eyes fell to the ground, he wrapped his arms around himself in a hug. “Mama, Papa … I want to be with them.”

Blanjini placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice soft. “They are in the potters field.”

Yankel's eyelids puckered. “You … you found them?”

He nodded, running his fingers through the boy's hair. “I am truly sorry.”

When the tannery roof collapsed two weeks ago, they had both been inside. Yankel had vanished shortly after without a trace, now we knew where he had been. Days later enough of the debris had been moved. The dead revealed. He was not the only orphan left behind, and not the only child missing.

“Where will I go now?” He barely squeaked the words out. “Blanjini … can I stay with you?”

Gravely he shook his head. “No, child. I cannot care for you.”

Yankel slowly turned to me. “Nightingale?”

Had I looked as pathetic when Giovanni first laid eyes on me? I met the boy's desperate gaze. My hand drifted toward my mask, already the fingers quaked with my terrible need to chase the damn dragon. No. I could not. “I am sorry.” I was not fit for a child, even a desperate one.

Crestfallen his fingers played with his rags.

“You are a cunning boy.” I lifted one of his hands and studied it. “I am certain you will find a path through this. Small deft fingers. Easy to slip in and out of pockets, I know you to have those skills. Fleet of foot.”

Blanjini raised an eyebrow. “Tell me you have not taught him anything wicked!”

“Depends upon your perspective.” I shrugged. “You are resourceful, Yankel. Recall what I showed you when you first tried to lift off of me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Swift and soft. Hide it well. Act innocent.”

“That's right.” I grinned, smart lad. “And aim for the robust wealthy, they utterly lack stamina.”

“Nightingale!” Blanjini pounded a fist on his knee. “Such behavior likely led to him getting taken in the first place.”

Yankel's sheepish head bow told the whole story.

“Besides, stealing is wrong.”

“Sometimes one is left without choice.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I am surprised at you.”

“I did not always live such a charmed life.” I replied smoothly, even in his presence I had lifted a pocketful of coal. That did not begin to approach the worst thievery of my existence.

Blanjini clicked his tongue. “Still, there must be another solution.”

For him and the dozens of other homeless orphans pervading the slums, sleeping in stoops, stealing their daily bread, if they got any at all. I intimately knew the extremes of such an existence.

Footsteps thudded behind us. Yankel dove into the shelter of my cloak. He had no need. I turned to find Stefano Conti, _La Porta Aperta's_ owner, with two mugs of ale in his hands. He offered us a wide grin and the drinks. In his deep voice he spoke his native Italian to me, “Your music has fallen silent. To entice you to play more and bring more patrons into my open door.”

Gratefully we took the mugs and drank deeply. I suspected Blanjini was just as thirsty as I had been. “Our deepest gratitude, _Signore_.”

He laughed. “I always have better days when you two are around. If all it takes is this gesture, it's worth my while. Now, if you'll excuse me, since my brother broke his leg the duty falls on me to tend the stills. Poor sot, was a bad break too, he might never manage the stairs again.”

Yankel's eyes caught my attention, his hand reaching for my mug. There were a few swallows left. I handed it to him as Stefano's words struck a spark. I glanced between the two of them before raising a finger, “Signore Conti, if I may ask, could you use an assistant? I mean, at least for the moment.”

He turned back to me and scratched his chin. “Well it would certainly make things easier, Nightingale. But I couldn't pay much.”

Shifting my cloak to reveal the boy holding the mug, I placed a hand on his head. “I do not think the boy would ask much more than a place to sleep and some food for his services.”

Stefano's eyes widened, he stepped closer as the boy quailed, not having understood our conversation. “Yankel, right?”

Yankel whipped his gaze between us.

I crouched down and spoke Yiddish for him. “It's all right. Signore Conti is a kind soul. If you are helpful to him and take instructions well, he may shelter and feed you. You will have to work, but he will not beat you. And of course you must **never** steal from his patrons.”

He swallowed, took a step closer with his eyes wide. And then, offered a tentative nod.

“I heard the boy was lost.” Stefano crouched down. “Certainly has lost weight since I'd last seen him.”

“Workhouse.”

He cringed. “Oh dear, explains a lot. Will have to clean him up, can't serve ale dressed like a dishrag.” His hand reached out and waited for the boy to take it. When he overcame his hesitation and did, Stefano smiled, “Come on, let's find you beneath all that grime.”

Blanjini exhaled a long breath.

I picked up my violin and ran the bow across it, producing a series of cheery notes. “A satisfactory solution?” It wasn't perfect, after all they didn't speak a common language, but that was something they could figure out.

He set his finished mug aside and picked up his violin. “Much better than common thievery.” We dissolved into a series of drinking songs apropos for _La Porta Aperta_.

Afternoon found us following the scant shade in an attempt to avoid the oppressive heat. We found a sliver of relief cast from a building. Slick with sweat that did not evaporate in the humidity, it became difficult to play for long without drying our hands on increasingly dampening clothing.

Blanjini leaned against the building foundation and heaved a sigh. One that I echoed. I had endured such temperatures before, stone working in the Italian summers from dawn til dusk had been similar enough. I had been younger then, well fed from Giovanni's generous table. This proved a little harder with age on my bones and scanter resources. Still, I had endured hardships before. Both of us rested for a good measure, letting a few other musicians play to the ambling crowd passing by. To my amusement Blanjini softly snored as he leaned against my shoulder. Sleeping out in the open surrounded by others was not something I dared to do. So, I kept a quiet watch for both of us.

Swarms of children wove through the crowds triggering curses from some of the vendors when a basket tipped, or a customer stumbled from their passing. The children bore all colors of skin and hair, mottled into a mud brown as they played. The gutters painted them with the same brush. Their various languages mixed in a cacophony. Somehow without speaking the same tongues they communicated enough for their purposes to play organized games.

Play. What did I know of this experience? Their carefree laughter opened a wound I'd forgotten I bore as I tried to envision my younger self chasing after another child in a game of tag … and not simply running from me, or throwing stones at me.

Had it been here instead of where I was born, would I have been the outcast? I'd never know.

Laughter peeled as the swarm of children careened toward us. I lifted an arm in front of the sleeping Blanjini to shield him. My efforts were marginal as Ronan's reckless stumble planted him directly in my lap.

The young boy giggled and waved up at me. “Bird!”

“Good afternoon, Ronan. And where is your sister … ” I didn't get her name out before the girl practically climbed up my side, her arms on my shoulder. “Ah, there she is.”

Betha giggled and squirmed. “They're gonna get me. Shh, don't let them see us.”

“Who would notice you perched like a bird on my shoulder?”

Her breath whistled through her missing tooth. The crowd of children pushed and stumbled around us, reaching for their target.

I held a finger to my lips and they glanced to the man at my side. The commotion instantly dwindled and they stood in some semblance of order. Respect for one thing at least, even amongst the young ones.

An older boy tugged his cap and declared, “You're safe for now. But you can't stay there forever!”

She stuck her tongue out. “Watch me!”

They waved a hand and moved off, launching into a fresh round.

I glanced up at her. “They are right. You cannot stay.”

Betha toyed with my hair, bound at the nape of my neck like a horse's tail. The sensation irritated me. “Course I can. Nightingale, will you play?”

I shook my head enough to flick my hair over my other shoulder, away from her inquisitive hands. “I will, when Blanjini wakes.”

She craned her neck, nearly falling down my shoulder. “It's day, why is he sleeping?”

“Because he is older and does not have the energy you do.” I shrugged, it seemed a likely explanation.

Ronan sat up in my lap, his bare feet kicking the air and knocking my shins.

Patience. They are only children. Became my silent mantra.

Sliding down my arm, Betha nudged Ronan over and perched on my leg. Now I had acquired two of the little guttersnipes in my lap. Oh, this was certainly not my day.

Once more Betha managed to get her encourageable fingers into my hair. The nagging itch for the balm I so dearly needed welled. Not the best time to poke at my nerves, child or not.

Beside me Blanjini's snoring softened, he stirred a bit.

An off key voice began to sing. I looked down to find Betha improvising a song while she braided my tangled hair, Ronan clapped along. “Nightingale. Nightingale. Songs all in the wind. Nightingale. Nightingale. Play your fiddle so.”

Even I could not be angry subjected to her rudimentary song.

“Nightingale is such a funny name,” she muttered.

“Well, it is not really my name.”

Glancing up, she paused and cocked her head. “What did your ma call you?”

I couldn't breathe for a moment. That question, that simple damned question gutted me. My name did not enter into it, all the things she had called me cascaded. _Burden, creature, beast, monster, curse, abomination._ My vision blurred with the threat of tears. None of those should be spoken. But … I had made her call me something … the statue. The terrible trick that drove her insane, but earned me a dissociated affection. It left my lips before I knew it. “ _L' ange._ ”

Unaware of the truth, Betha smiled twisting my hair between her fingers. “That's pretty.”

Angel in my native French. I had been far from mother's angel. Though she had hardly taken pains to earn my affection. My throat just about closed off, breaking into a coughing fit as I swallowed wrong.

Ronan's tiny fists pounded on my chest in the semblance of help, of course it didn't do any good. Betha's alarmed cries roused Blanjini at my side. His larger hand rested on my back.

When at long last I could catch my breath again, I rasped out to quell the children's excited cries, “I am fine now. Please stop.” I grasped Ronan's hands to cease the pounding.

“Nightingale, are you all right?” Blanjini leaned closer, his ear cocked toward my chest.

“Yes.” I took a few more breaths. “I merely swallowed improperly.” I gripped his hand as steadily as possible to reassure him. All this added heat from the children pressed up close to me was not helping any. But they were seated on my legs and my efforts to extract them failed.

Ronan leaned forward and poked a finger at the sole of my shoe. “Hole.”

Indeed, the sole had worn through. This was not my best pair, but I couldn't afford to wear the other. That must be reserved for the clients I would one day acquire.

Betha resumed braiding my hair. “Did you leave milk for the neighbors?”

It was my turn to cock my head. “Which ones?”

“You know, the neighbors.” She moved her fingers steadily now along the black and silver strands. “The brownies. Ma says if you leave them milk the little folk will come out in the middle of the night and cobble your shoes. I wish we had shoes for them to cobble. Only Ma and Pa do. But when we're big enough we'll need the brownies for our shoes. They do all sorts of things. So, leave milk out tonight for them.”

I chuckled softly. “I would, but I fear it has been many a month since I could afford the luxury of fresh milk.”

“Oh, well that's why your shoes are holey,” came her soft reply.

I rolled my eyes without her seeing. Blanjini raised an eyebrow, “What have I missed?”

“A great irritation.” I leaned back against the building only to find the tension on the braid in Betha's hands preventing me from doing so. “Ahh!” How had my hair gotten so long? I had to get her out of my lap before she plaited all my hair like a fine horse's mane. My elbow touched my violin.

Aha, the key to my freedom. “Betha, how can I play with you in my lap?”

Instantly both children sprang to their feet clapping. Others came running, at first with hand outstretched to tag them. But the moment they spied the violin rising to my chin they halted. Blanjini raised his own and soon the street was filled once again the children's laughter as they clasped hands and spun in wide circles.

For over an hour the children requested song after song for our strings, dancing wild games. It earned us another few coins for our efforts from the passersby before the children dashed off at the excited calls of another group.

I heaved a sigh as they left us to relative peace. My fingers worked out the tight braid, along with a few muttered curses.

In the midst of the task, Blanjini's hand caught my shoulder. His blind eyes locked on me. “ _L' ange_?” He mangled it, but I caught the long ago uttered word. “What does it mean?”

I closed my eyes. “In my native French it means angel.”

His brows knit. “A lovely word, yet I wonder why it brought you so much pain.”

My breathing hitched again plagued by the memories of my childhood. I could not answer him, not now, and likely not ever. My hands shook with a greater need for opium's balm.

“Nightingale?” His voice called to me, soft and edged with concern.

I took out the pouch and shook out the coins into my hand, swiftly dividing them and putting his share into his palm. “The day's heat is getting to me.” Without another word, I swept up my violin and fled toward home.

* * *

_**~Nadir~** _

The stairs creaked as I took them one at a time. Each foot rose to join the other. My knee ached from another day waiting in the work lines by the dockyard in some chance to be chosen for a day job. My English had improved, but was not enough. I rubbed my knee. Or perhaps something else gave them pause to hire me.

Outside our door I studied the peeling paint, my hand hesitated on the knob. A scent drifted in the air from inside. One I knew well. Dear Allah, he had gone several days this time. Did I expect he would not return to its embrace? Not if I was honest with myself. While Erik possessed a profound willpower, it had limits.

Where would I find him this time?

I opened the creaking door and peered into the sunlight squalor. This place wasn't much, but at least it was a roof over our heads. A cloud of smoke hung in the air, not the thickest I had seen, but denser than the recent times since he had retaken to playing his violin. Shutting the door behind me I wandered into the smoke searching for the source.

Erik sat at his cobbled together drafting desk, his mask flung onto the surface, eye-holes staring at the ceiling. His elbows leaned heavily on the table propping him up as the opium pipe hung from his malformed lips smoking like a chimney. His mismatched eyes unfocused, cast vaguely in the direction of the mask.

My shoulders fell. So much for the blissful days of the musician. Someone must have reminded him of the past.

I would get no words from him now. Passing by I approached the stove and opened the cast iron pot. Inside a refreshed stew bubbled and frothed. No longer just cabbage water, it now contained a mixture of vegetables and if my nose was reliable Erik had somehow gotten some poultry. Chicken, I believed.

My belly voiced its request. We would feast tonight.

Turning back to Erik I sighed. One of us would. It was entirely possible Erik's stupor would remain uninterrupted. Facing the pot I recovered it.

Something caught my attention, the shift of the light? The intensity of the smoke shifting? A repetitious rapping on wood down low echoed in our sparse room.

Erik knelt on the floor, his knuckles striking the wall low where it connected to the floorboards. The pipe still clenched between his teeth, he cocked his head and listened after each knock. At last he swore and caught me in the corner of his eye. Over his shoulder he called out with a voice, thick from the drug, slow and halting. “Do you know where we can get milk?”

Was he in a good humor or a word shy from lashing out? A bead of sweat not borne from heat dripped down my forehead. “Milk? I uhh … I don't know.” Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the flash of the window light off his blade. Naked lethal metal exposed on the table.

He took a deep breath of the smoke, the cloud concealing some of his deformity as his features twisted in frustration resembling an animated corpse. I understood in this sweltering heat where his mask might be uncomfortable, but I still found it hard not to stare at his bare face. A gesture well known to foul his mood.

I swallowed when he remained silent, his eyes locked on me. What had happened today? At long last he turned back to the wall and continued to rap on it. His hair tethered at the nape of his neck dangled in wavy strands. Toward the top a short span locked in a loosening braid. I narrowed my eyes. Had he done it himself to escape the heat?

“Erik? What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I am doing?”

Oh, I had an answer for that, but I valued my life.

Crawling along the edge of the floor he snapped, “I'm looking for neighbors.”

I stiffened. “In the walls?” Dear Allah I had not left him long enough to have done such a horrific feat as that.

“Little folk.” He hissed. “It would be easier with the milk. If we make them an offering, the neighbors will fix everything.”

That answered it, he had quite clearly crossed the boundary of reality.


	4. Chapter 4

_ **Chapter 4** _

_**~Nadir~** _

The mattress shifted beneath me, nudging me out of a restless sleep. The breeze through the open window didn't reach this far into the door of our bedroom. Stuffy air remained almost difficult to breathe, and the rumbling storm flickering outside showed no signs of abating it. The lightning pierced my cracked eyelids, I rolled over deeper into the already dark shadows.

_Creek. BANG!_

I sat upright. Had the wind blown something over? The storm hadn't increased. Another flash illuminated the room.

Something wasn't right. It struck me like the following bolt.

“Erik!”

He should have been in the bed beside me, where I had guided him after a rather unfruitful search for … uhh … little folk. Now only an imprinted curve remained, evidence he had been there.

In between the flashes my eyes could see nothing. I needed a candle. Staggering to my feet, I felt my way along the wall to the coal stove where I held the candle's wick to the embers, blowing it into a flame. The flicker caught and cast a soft, steady glow around the room. Everything looked in order here. Nothing disturbed. Outside was nothing more than a gentle breeze as the rain began, falling straight down.

Then what was the source that bang?

I held the candle toward the bedroom. The glow caught an ice blue iris staring out at me from far too close to the floor between the bed and the wall. I raced back in to find Erik wedged there awkwardly, as if in the midst of some mad scramble he had stumbled and disappeared into the void. The candle revealed something else more troubling. The flash off his wicked blade, clenched firmly in his left hand.

Cautiously I edged into the room, holding out a hand. “Erik, I need you to drop the blade.”

His iris, the one I could see, so wide as to near abolish the pupil. In the darkness this vision was all wrong and my heart raced at the reason why. The opium usually brought him peace, typically a balm for the scars the world left behind. Occasionally the result was quite the opposite. He struggled, the attempt managed to make things worse as his tangled limbs sunk lower.

“Please.” I dared not get closer. If he thrashed that sharp edge could be lethal. “I can't help you if you don't drop it.”

Every breath came deep, like a terrified animal about to surge. A flash of lightning blazed into the room. He twisted and turned in a blind panic, trying to right himself. In the process his hand released the knife, it tumbled to the floor.

I kicked it away into the darkness and dashed forward, setting the candle holder on the makeshift nightstand. Grasping his shoulder I wrenched him around and back up onto the bed, the board beneath creaked with the weight.

Erik hissed as his hand traveled toward the back of his head, a wordless cry escaped him as he touched it.

“Easy now, let me look.” Sure enough, a sizable goose egg had begun to swell where I assume he had struck it against the wall in the midst of half waking from some night terror. “It's not so bad. Not even bleeding. Lie down, I'll be right back.”

Guided out of the room by the candle that reaction worried me. It was a bump. Erik regularly overlooked far worse than that. I collected a bowl of water cooled in the barrel and a rag before returning to find him compliant.

Compliant? Erik?

He lay on his side, quiet and still, his hands in soft fists resting just shy of the pillow. In the light both his eyes stared vacantly toward the wall, the irises drowning the tiny pupils. I sat on the edge of the mattress and wrung out the rag, placing it against the back of his head.

Erik flinched at the cool contact, tears welled in his eyes.

“I'll be gentle.”

A quiet sob broke his silence. “I did not mean to misbehave.” The voice, in French, so young and hesitant. I drew my hand back, was this some joke? But he continued to babble, “I promise, I will be a good boy! I swear it!”

I gazed closer. No, this was not some act at my expense, whether this came from the opium or the blow to his head I could not be certain. What had happened earlier to trigger his folly search for peace? What had someone said?

Replacing the cool rag, I shook my head. It didn't matter, whatever it had been the combination had left him a wreck, adrift on some memory. “Hush, Erik, it's alright. You hit your head is all. Nothing broken.”

He wept like a child, curling into himself and repeatedly apologizing. My heart squeezed into painful fits at the sound, a cascade of memories sitting at my son's bedside in a vain attempt to sooth him. My eyes squeezed tight of their own accord at the bitter loss I had never ceased to mourn.

The whisper escaped me before I could stop it, “Erik, so help me if you are pulling this to spite me … ”

And yet when I opened my eyes the look in his could not be faked, not even by his mastery. That was a child's terrified gaze. “Do not … I beg you please do not leave!”

“Easy now.” I held the cloth to the sizable bump on his head and forced a smile. “You're tired, that's all. It's the middle of the night and you need to get more sleep. Just close your eyes.”

Lightning flashed, and he fussed anew, covering his eyes. Strange, Erik liked watching storms.

Rising from the bed I turned, “Let me just close the do—”

His hand seized my wrist. “No!” The pleas of a frightened child filled my ears. “No, do not close the door. Do not lock the door. I promise I will behave. If I promise to behave will you leave it open?”

Slowly, I sat back down. His desperate grip on my wrist eased. But my worry only built all the more. Where was this coming from? Shakily I nodded, only one thing to do. I rested my hand on his. “Yes, I will leave the door open if you go back to sleep.”

He muttered, his eyelids fluttering shut and his breathing gradually eased into a deep slumber. In the candlelight I wondered, not for the first time, just how deep his scars ran.

Dawn's light changed little for what promised to be a dreary day. I arose hardly having remembered crawling back into bed. It was now empty, the cloth hung over the side of the bowl. I edged out the door to find more rain water trickling out from the device. Despite the heat, the fire stoked to a blaze. A shadow fell across the floor. I discovered Erik with his knees drawn up, seated across the windowsill, his hand rubbing the back of his head.

I held my breath scrambling for something to say.

Erik glared morosely out the window, his violin lay on the table. The rain still pattered outside, he would not be playing today. When a floorboard creaked beneath my step it drew his eyes my way. The pupils sizable black pools in the daylight. “What are you gawking at?”

I released that breath, never more grateful to witness his ire.

_**~Erik~** _

“Is your headache improved today?” Blanjini greeted me as I joined him on the street corner, shafts of morning light cut through the elevated train supports.

Subconsciously, I reached back to rub the rather tender bump I had woken to find three mornings ago. I heaved a sigh. “It would be, if I knew where it had come from.” In truth the nagging ache had lessened some from the first morning. My efforts to conceal it from Blanjini yesterday had failed, largely on account of the children. Betha's jostling to climb onto my shoulders produced a rather unflattering yelp from me. That was when I discovered the seed of my current torment. The lump itself remained a mystery. Though it had not escaped me that Nadir didn't seem surprised, his gaze almost knowing.

Carts jostled by into place, some pulled by horse most by hand as the street market opened. Headache or not, the music must be played.

“Fortunately, I have a remedy in my hands.” I raised my violin and ran a quick scale. Blanjini echoed. Quickly we adjusted, tuning the violins to one another. “Shall we?” I plunged into selections from Mozart, light, airy pieces that did not rattle my already throbbing head. By the end of the set, it had eased somewhat, though the coins had not come. Typical for a Thursday when the money had run far short for the week.

This detail did nothing to stop our daily ritual. Only the rain, which threatened our instruments, could alter that.

“As yesterday, you're not as crisp as usual, Nightingale. Your bow is a bit sluggish.”

I shrugged. “By all means, take the lead and I shall follow.”

“That is not what I meant. I am merely inquiring if you are certain you are all right.”

“I have recovered from worse, my dear friend. Or is this more a concern for Saturday?” I raised an eyebrow.

He tucked his chin. “Observant as usual.”

“Do not fret. I will not let something so minor interrupt that.”

His smile broadened, splitting his wiry beard. Though he didn't utter a word, I had confirmed my suspicion. We drew our bows back when a ruckus broke through the crowd.

A couple of street curs raced along, growling and snapping at one another. Their hackles raised as they fought over a putrid limb. A limb with a hoof. At their heels a gaggle of children chased them waving sticks in the air and calling out which would be the winner, the gray or the speckled white. There amongst them, Betha herded Ronan along by the wrist as they balanced on the edge of a water trough. Their reflections danced in the greenish water.

I gritted my teeth and stood tall. “And so much for my head feeling better.”

Blanjini chuckled. “Unless we can keep them dancing, then perhaps they will leave you alone.”

Somehow I doubted that. For some reason, Betha especially seemed to be enthralled with my hair. Every day that the skies did not weep the children found us, no matter what corner we perched on. Every day Betha and Ronan sought my lap, and I did not have the heart to deny them their refuge.

The dogs tugged the limb back and forth in a furious tug of war. The gray released her hold and darted for the throat of the other releasing a cry from the smaller speckled white. All the while the children continued to cheer.

Thrusting my violin into Blanjini's hands I strode toward the fighting curs, the hilt of my knife in my left hand. As my shadow fell on the beasts, I drew the blade and slung it at the limb. The deteriorating flesh of the knee joint split with a crack, effectively cleaving the limb into two parts. I kicked one toward the gray, and the other half toward the speckled white.

For a moment the froth-mouthed beasts stared at me before their eyes took in the two pieces. Tongues flicked out, and in a moment both dashed for their own prize, trotting away with each tail held high. I pried my knife from the mire, shaking it off.

The gaggle of children pointed their sticks at me. “No fair! We had a bet going! Why did you stop them?” They continued to advance on me. “We want fun! We want fun!”

The burly boy with the cap tugged it down and gripped his stick with both hands, thrusting it at me.

“You may want to reconsider that decision, boy. Your parents would be upset if I injured you.”

“Not a worry there.” He spat and widened his stance. “Ain't got none.” He advanced to their cheers. Whether they wanted a real fight or a simply a mockery of one, I did not know.

I held the knife at my side, staring him down. But his spark did not diminish.

Thumping feet into the ground they called out in a rhythmic chorus. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

This was all I needed today.

“You can do it, Daniel!”

The boy brandished his stick and roared.

In an encore of before I threw the heavy blade, splitting his stick in two, the blade stuck in the mud between his feet. Silence washed over the gathered children. Wide eyes gazed first at the two halves, then slid down to the shivering blade. I strode forward and wrenched it free, holding the flat of it to his face. “Never enter a fight unless you have good reason to. Fools die from their bravado.”

His jaw hung a bit slack before he found his voice. “How did you … do that?”

“I was forced to learn how, for survival.” I sheathed the blade back into hiding. “This is not a trick for entertainment.” Turning on my heel, I made my way back to Blanjini and took back my violin.

Blanjini shook his head. “Young Daniel, again. That boy calls to death each day.”

“One day, death will answer.” When I faced the street we were surrounded by the children, clearly their blood lust forgotten as they joined their hands in a circle, waiting. I heaved a sigh. “Apparently they have a request.”

“Do you have a preference, Nightingale?”

“Anything that will keep them out of trouble.”

Our ploy worked for a little while, all of the children danced in games to our music, and to our relief. For the moment, they stayed engaged in harmless gaiety. The joyous tunes kept Betha and Ronan from climbing me like a tree. My hair was safe from her industrious fingers.

All of that ceased when a smartly dressed man tapped his cane down the cobblestones. His eyes narrowed as he glanced either direction, tugging out his pocket watch with great dismay.

The children gathered in a huddle, speaking in hushed tones before laughter broke out. Clearly they had spied the next victim to entertain them. My hand on Blanjini's shoulder gave him pause, he lowered his violin to his lap for a break and we both listened keenly.

An amused smile formed as three little devils stepped out from the gaggle; Daniel, Franci, and Clover, each one had a fair grasp of English.

The moment they approached the man he scrambled for a handkerchief, pressing it to his nose. “My word! What odiferous little creatures you are!” His cane stayed out before him to create a barrier.

“Thank you!” Clover rocked back and forth on her heals, that motion stole his attention.

In truth, the scent was from where it had been all along, the horse. I frowned for a moment, but stopped short of intervening as I spied Daniel's part in the ploy as he casually herded young Ronan around the man's backside.

The man pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. “I seem to be quite lost, as you can see I have this invitation for … oh well, I doubt you can read. It says 'Dear Mr. Smith, Your proposal has been accepted for discussion with the city council. Please present yourself on Thursday at 1 o'clock at the city chambers located in the City Hall.' It's supposed to be somewhere on this street. Would you know where that is?”

On Bowery? Certainly not. Only an imbecile would confuse Bowery with Broadway.

Clover cocked her head and narrowed one eye. Oh she certainly knew where it was. After all, her whole family had been carted there for a case with their landlord. “City Hall? Oh yes, of course.” She pointed off to his left.

The moment Mr. Smith turned his head to follow her gesture, Daniel's hand darted into his right pocket and unclasped the watch. In a second it was gone. Not bad. The boy had promise, and the girl was adept at distraction.

“Mister you want to go back up the way you came, it's right on the corner of Prince St.”

Still holding the kerchief to his nose he turned without thanks and sauntered back up toward Prince.

I swiftly translated for Blanjini, who raised an eyebrow. “The corner of the Bowery and Prince? That's not … ” his voice drifted off in a slow smile of comprehension.

We did not have long to wait before the man's hurried steps carried him back our direction and into the path of the children who had already been debating where to send him next. “Your turn, Franci,” they called out softly.

Nonchalantly the young boy wandered his way, hands in his pockets. Mr. Smith paused, gasping for air and even coughing into his kerchief. “I beg your pardon, waif, but I am in a terrible rush to get to City Hall. I asked a young girl and her directions took me to a pub. Would you know where City Hall is?” He slowed down the words as if Franci wouldn't understand otherwise.

“Of course I do.” He tugged on the cloth tied about his neck. “You want to go on down this way and hang a right. Two blocks in, you'll find it on Mott street.”

Once more the dapper man darted off. At the translation Blanjini broke into laughter. He wasn't the only one. Franci sent him toward a sewer where a sinkhole had opened it up weeks ago and efforts to get the city to handle it had gone unheeded.

Clover and Franci bent over dissolving into giggles. “Nice one!” Clover opened her hand up, “and while you had him distracted I got this.” In her palm lay a nice gold ring. “Wonder what I can get for this?”

“Wow! Enough food for a week, at least!”

She hopped up and down. “Maybe Pa will buy me some shoes.”

I almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.

Swiftly she hid the trinket as the man came stumbling back around the corner a distinct shade of green behind the handkerchief. “Oh my God! That wasn't City Hall, that was a cesspit!”

“Same thing.” Clover whispered to Franci, they were close enough I caught it and couldn't help but chuckle.

This time Daniel intercepted his path, and flashed the man a friendly grin. “You look lost, maybe I can help.”

“City Hall!” He gasped.

“You went entirely the wrong way. Go down this direction and you're lookin' for Canal St. It'll be on your right.” He waved as the man darted off.

Blanjini almost choked on his laughter when I revealed the destination. “He didn't.”

I nudged Blanjini, “Let's follow. I want to see Smith's face when he finds this building.” We followed along behind the children, all of them trying to stifle their giggles as the crowd separated us from the unfortunate Mr. Smith.

Several blocks down, and past the horse's corpse which nearly left the man retching, he caught the name of the street. “Ah, Canal! So then off to my right.” The color drained from his face as he gazed up at the open balcony, where several scantily clad women of the evening leaned out and waved to him coyly.

“Come on up, big spender! I could entertain you, darlin'.”

Scrambling backward he threw his hands in the air. “No! This is a brothel!”

“Course it is, honey.” The madam leaned on the railing. “What did you think it was, City Hall?”

Daniel doubled over with laughter joined a moment later by Clover and Franci. Daniel shrugged a shoulder. “Might as well be City Hall.”

“Yah,” Clover added, “Sure hold enough meetings in the back room.”

Mr. Smith's cheeks blazed red. He was about to berate the children when a coughing fit cut him short. I whispered to Blanjini after he'd savored my description and we'd both had a good laugh, “All right, I have let them have their fun. He has suffered enough.” I broke through the children, scattering them into the crowd.

“Of all the—I can't believe! The very notion. A brothel!”

“Children are incorrigible.” I waved a hand.

“But a brothel! I most certainly—”

“You may not, but I assure you, other's certainly do.”

That did little to calm him. Stomping his foot like a child he shouted. “All I want to do is find City Hall!”

I pointed down the Bowery. “Keep walking that way. You'll come along to Chambers St. close to Park Row around where this all intersects with Broadway.”

His eyes widened. “Broadway?”

I nodded. “It is a very ornate building. You truly cannot miss it.”

His shoulder dropped more as he glanced up the sign that read Bowery. “Broadway?” He drifted off, muttering about the experience, vowing never to set foot in this refuse ever again.

As I turned I found the children gathered in a circle examining their prizes.

From a second story window a woman yelled out in Italian, “Francesco! Get up here!”

The others laughed and teased him with his real name. He hissed to them, “It's Franci!” Before he turned and wailed, “ _Mamina_!”

She scowled, “You get your ass up here right now and watch the baby so I can make dinner.”

“But _Mamina_!”

“Don't make me come down there, boy!”

Franci folded his arms across his chest. His mother vanished from the window. A moment later she stormed across the street and snatched his ear tugging him as he cried out apologies.

“You come when I call, you understand me?” She paused long enough to brandish a wooden spoon at Blanjini and I. “You two always playing your music. Such a bad influence. You're the reason I can't keep him home.” She turned back and swatted his butt with the spoon. “Get in there.”

I heaved a sigh, placing my bow to my violin. “Just another day on the Bowery.”


	5. Chapter 5

_ **Chapter 5** _

_**~Saturday Night on the Bowery~** _

The lamp lights shuddered to the rhythm of the music echoing off the tenement walls. The sunset long ago had failed to quench the summer heat. Humidity left blossoms of sweat untouched. As the musicians played and the dancing grew more vigorous, showers of droplets rained down beneath the star studded night. The bright sky above only disrupted by the every present haze of the city. Coins passed between hands for the paupers' banquet or a chance at a street game. Every soul crammed into the wretched slum frolicked in the evening forming a sea of influence as one ethnicity melded into another.

Nothing remained pure in this crucible of poverty.

Especially when it came to the music, as it was a rare musician who could resist the lure to try their fingers at a new style, no matter the suitability of the instrument in their hand. The fusion pushed every boundary as Asian and Gaelic collided with Greek, to begin with.

Caught up in the experimental pieces, children danced in swarms, chasing each other in endless games. They were hardly alone. In the midst of the crowd a bleary-eyed Nadir clasped hands with Chastity, the two consumed by fits of laughter as she tried to teach him the steps. His efforts staggered by hesitation, but he didn't care. Pressed close to her, a blush rose to their cheeks. Whether from the heat, the alcohol, or some scarcely concealed desire could be well debated as they joined in the rest of the crowd swept away in the music's pulse.

Among the musicians, Erik stood beside Blanjini, the two often at the core of the folk selections, letting each of those who comprised the makeshift orchestra sway the feel from the cittern's voice to the strum of a guitar, they embraced the world. Beneath his mask, Erik smiled with his eyes shut as he played, sinking into the current and letting it carry him away. Soaring high above the misery of life, he took many a soul on a journey with him.

But even the best musicians couldn't go on forever. When they fell to a breathless silence, a young boy dashed through the crowd toward them, a tray with mugs in his hands. Two mugs, precisely. He headed directly for Erik and Blanjini, holding it up. “Nightingale, Blanjini. Conti sends his thanks.”

Taking the mug and a grateful swig, Erik ruffled the boy's hair. “You look well, Yankel.”

He grinned wider. “I am, thanks to you.” He had put a bit of weight on. Cleaned of the grime his skin color was healthier and he had a simple shirt that bore whole seams.

Blanjini reached out to touch the boy's cheek. “Serve him well, boy.”

Yankel danced on the balls of his feet, beaming with pride. Through the crowd Conti gestured to him, the flash of a series of fingers. He nodded back. “I have to go. I'll return for the mugs!” Soon he vanished into the pub and came back out to the customers.

“I knew they would figure something out.” Erik downed the rest of the ale. “Hand gestures, one of the simplest ways.”

Blanjini waved a hand. “Yankel is a smart boy. It's a shame what happened.”

“He will do well under Conti. Might even learn a trade if the man shows him how to brew.”

“Far better than ending his life on the streets.”

“Or laboring to his death in the workhouse.” Behind his mask, Erik scowled as once more he envisioned the poor boy's shoulders.

“Fortune has spared him that fate so long as he is not recognized again.”

“Recognized?” Erik laughed shortly. “The very notion. He is as every child in this ward. One of us looks like the other to their eyes. They will not find him because of their own ignorance.”

Blanjini rubbed his beard. “Or they imprison another in his place.”

“That my dear friend cannot be avoided were it to occur. Let us hope that is not the case.”

The strumming of a guitar split the night into a cheer. Erik laid a hand on Blanjini's shoulder and the two left their violins with the musicians. Guiding the blind man out into the dancers, they formed eager lines as the string instruments began a slow steady rhythm. Feet moved and slid, finding the cobblestones as they swept through the filth. Step forward, back, side, sweep the foot and dip forward. Clap. The momentum built steadily until it was veritable frenzy.

Nadir and Chastity stood nearby, clapping the beat. “Look at him, the lunatic!” Nadir neglected to hold his tongue on such a term well out of Erik's earshot.

Chastity studied Erik as he moved along with the folk dance easy as if he had been born to it. “The Bowery Nightingale certainly did pick it up swiftly enough. Most take at least a year to learn the steps.”

“A year? For him?” Nadir slurred. “Ha! The showoff. I knew once he got out here what it would bring. The man knows nothing of restraint.”

Sliding her eyes to the side, Chastity muttered. “Right.” Her hand darted to her cover her mouth as she leaned forward, pointing to the crowd. “Oh Nadir, look look look!”

Following her finger, he spied the bouncing red curls of a child skipping up toward Erik.

Betha grasped Erik's sleeve and boldly tugged him out of the line. Despite the height difference, the child held onto his hands making up her own steps. Erik grinned down at her, mimicking her attempts. As the speed picked up she gave an enthusiastic cry, “Up! Up!”

Petite as she was, it took next to nothing for him to swing her into the air. Betha giggled and threw her arms out each time he tossed her airborne, before she settled on his shoulders riding there as he rejoined the others for a time.

By now the tempo had increased to a maddening pace where only the swiftest musicians kept up. The dancers pounded out the steps, spinning through the sequence. Betha nearly lost her balance in the growing foray. Carefully Erik swung her down and out of the way where she joined the onlookers, clapping.

Gradually the lines formed into circles, the main core of the dance. They surged in and out like a tide to the beat, feet kicking in and back out again. Blanjini moved confident at Erik's side, if one didn't know they would think he could still see. The dance of his life, performed so often that his feet knew where they belonged. And it was he who had taught Erik the pattern as well as the musical cues.

The feverish tempo of the music welled ever swifter as the circles remained wide. Now one at a time a dancer pealed off to enter the center, the dance became their own. To the throes of the music they let their individual spirit fly.

Blanjini spun into the circle as they cheered his name and leapt high sweeping a leg beneath the other before landing. In a series of tight steps he worked his way around facing every which way interspersed with some impressive high kicks that rivaled the others in their circles. Cheers erupted as he flung his arms to the stars with a cry of elation.

When he returned to the edge of the circle he flung Erik in. “Soar Nightingale!”

Using the momentum, Erik spun out into a high split and came down into the low leg sweep, reminiscent of the Russian dances he had witnessed in the Steppes. His long legs made it all the more impressive. From down low he did a dead leap into the splits, his heels clearing the heads of the circle. Not just once, but twice.

A man in the next circle glared and called out. Mirroring the feat.

Erik answered his call with a third, spinning with the kick. He grinned at the man's wide-eyed stare and soon the circles erupted in a leaping contest. More and more joining into the fray until the slick mud of the Bowery ended it, sending Erik unceremoniously onto his rump. Throwing his head back in laughter, he accepted the hand of a rival helping him to his feet. They clapped each others shoulders and the lines reformed, culminating in a frenzy.

At the end of the dance, Brennan's uileann pipe took over, joined by Enda's tin whistle. The Sheehans proved their speed of finger in the devilishly tricky melody.

The ale gone to his head, the musical current caught hold of Erik and got the better of him. His violin not in his hands, he began to hum along. And soon his lips could not hold back the surging tide. The words flowed free in a lyrically drunken voice as swift as the accompaniment.

“Let the rain and the wind and the hail blow high, and the snow come a-tumblin' from the sky. She's as nice as apple pie, an' she'll get her own lad by and by. When she gets a lad of her own she won't tell her ma till she comes home. Let them all come as they will. For it's Albert Mooney she loves still.”

Erik didn't miss a beat as he launched full-throated into the chorus. “Tell me ma when I go home the boys won't leave the girls alone. They pull my hair, they stole my comb. But that's alright til I go home. She is handsome, she is pretty. She's the belle of Belfast city. She is a courting one, two, three. Pray won't you tell me who is she?”

About to enter the next verse, the night split with an alarmed scream. Enraptured by the music, a woman tumbled from her second story window she'd leaned out of. Erik instantly dashed into silence, staring helplessly as she plummeted, far from the only one to hold their breathe. The helpless woman landed on a cart, shattering the awning to the alarmed cries of the owner. Under the berating, she rose to her feet, the glassy-eyed gaze clearing as she stuttered to exclaim through the language barrier.

Glassy-eyed. The expression struck a blow to Erik. He clamped a hand over his mouth in dread realization. How could he have been so wreckless with his voice. Didn't he know better by now?

Erik swallowed and drew back toward the shadows. His fingers reached for the safety of his violin even as Blanjini tugged on his sleeve. “Nightingale, what was that crash. What happened?”

He hung his head. “A mistake.”

Glances darted his way. He could not hide from their searching. He could not bury his guilt beneath enough music. Silently he cursed the unwieldy power of his voice for the remainder of the evening until the music died down well past midnight.

Stretching, Erik and Blanjini wandered through the dispersing crowd. “What has silenced the Nightingale?”

Erik rubbed his elbow and made a show of clearing his throat. “I uhh … my throat's sore.”

Raising a brow, Blanjini tapped his stick along. “You sound well enough.”

He did not answer, plodding along in silence. Glancing back over his shoulder he spied the woman rubbing her rump as she eyed the cart. She seemed fine. The cart however was in pieces, the owner still distraught. And Erik's head bowed anew with the weight of his guilt.

“Did you say something?”

He blinked. “Did I?”

“I thought I heard you curse, or it sounded so in some other tongue.”

Erik heaved a sigh, unaware he had even said a damn thing. By now his head could no longer be an excuse. Attempting to take refuge in the shadows, Erik came to an abrupt halt, his eyes narrowed. “What is this?”

Blanjini paused, tapping his stick to follow Erik's path toward the alley. The stick poked at something soft.

Crouched down, Erik watched for a moment before Blanjini broke the silence. “Nightingale, speak to me. Your breathing has changed.”

“You remember the curs.”

“The ones you saved from the children's game? Do you see them?”

“They're both here.” Erik rose to his feet, taking a step back.

In the alley they lay, skin clinging to bone.

“Deceased.”

* * *

_**~Erik~** _

Mid afternoon came without much coin. Hardly a surprise for us. Our plan to venture back to the park altered by the path of a police officer patrolling the north end. I didn't want to risk testing him. He looked like a man in search of a mission. We would give him no direct cause to harass us.

So we played to the mid and south Bowery. But as usual for a Sunday, the crowd proved sparse.

“Something is missing.” Blanjini remarked as we took a break in the shade, violins leaning against our chests.

“Do not call the devil.” I sighed. And yet even as I muttered it, the same notion had troubled me for some time now as I watched Daniel organizing the local hooligans. It was rather _someone_ was missing. Betha and Ronan always turned me into a perch by now, emerging by mid-morning at the latest. I had not seen hide nor hair of them.

Blanjini huffed a breath as he rose to his feet. “We know where they live. I need your eyes.”

Clutching my violin, I joined him. “Maybe last night someone handed them a deep mug of Willis's rotgut and they are still abed.”

“They wouldn't be walking if that had been the case.”

“They might be blind.” I offered a teasing grin.

Blanjini clearly heard it in my voice and chuckled. “A far better way of coming to this state.”

Our journey wasn't far. We came upon the foundation sinking into the earth, the place where Betha pointed speaking like it was a beautiful home. I glanced up at the window with the broken pane. Pulling the door open our steps creaked up the staircase, one of the boards threatened to break. I grabbed Blanjini's arm to steady him.

We both took a deep breath—and choked. The foul odor from above assaulted us. My hand flew to cover my nose.

“My God!” Blanjini gagged. “Have you led me to an outhouse?”

“No.” Tears welled in my eyes spawned by the miasma, his assumption well suited. Despite the oppressive heat, a chill ran down my spine. Abandoning him, I flew the rest of the way up the flight of stairs and tore open the door.

Confronted by my fear, the words left me before I could stop them. “By the seven gates of hell … ”


	6. Chapter 6

_ **Chapter 6** _

_ **** _

_**~Erik~** _

Only once in my life had I encountered an odor more putrid, and that was not from my days living underground near a sewer. I shuddered and banished the memory before the scent could fully conjure it in vivid detail. I could not afford to be paralyzed now.

Before my eyes lay a dim room. Daylight, the only light source, scarcely piercing the soot smeared window. The small room was hardly larger than the one Nadir and I shared, but every available space had been filled by makeshift beds, over a dozen in all. Mattresses and cloth hammock slings. Meager belongings were crammed into every possible space; dishes, clothing, rag dolls and wooden toys. At the moment, only four souls haunted this room. Brennan knelt beside one hammock rocking it in a gentle sway. Crowded in the corner beside him, Enda leaned over another ragged hammock. Even in the dark I glimpsed her bloodshot eyes, the lids puckered from recent tears as she stroked the hair of the small form within.

The children. Betha and Ronan each lay curled on their side, hands grasping their bellies. Neither wore anything resembling pants. I grimly realized why as Ronan cried out despite his mother's attempts to sooth him. A moment later, the hammock beneath him dripped with a foul fluid. The source of the miasma. The floor bore a growing puddle of it. Between them, an old bucket overflowed with a mixture of bodily fluids. Cloths saturated with the mess lay in heaps. Brennan withdrew his hand and the mug in it. Betha leaned over the edge and vomited a stream of fluid.

His shoulders fell as he set the mug aside. It tipped over, empty. His knees soaked up the mixture of vomit and feces.

I gagged on the air, intensified by the heat and sealed room. Rushing inside, I made straight for the window and tried to force it open. The swollen, rotting wood wouldn't budge.

Brennan's eyes gazed up at me through his exhaustion. “It hasn't opened since we moved in. The damn thing's stuck.” His voice, thick with nasal mucus, explained how he had managed to stay so close. He was spared from smelling the worst of it.

After a few vain attempts only succeeded in dislodging a splinter or two, I swore and drove my elbow through the pane. The glass shattered. A blast of fresher air entered and a stream of daylight poured into the room over the children.

Carefully, I approached, able to breath a bit freer now. Behind me Blanjini tapped his way into the room. So unlike the night before, the children's eyes were dull and sunken. Overnight they seemed to have shriveled, already underweight bodies losing more, leaving behind wrinkles in their skin. Their clothing bore evidence of that source, extreme vomiting and defecation at a clearly alarming rate. Even from a distance in the tense silence, I heard their bowels twisting, watched them flinch to the chorus of their torment.

“How long?” My voice sounded so damned hollow. I had forced every edge of emotion from it to keep it from cracking. My fist pumped at my side.

Enda hardly glanced my way as she answered, “Before dawn.” Her tone tense, clipped, fighting to bury the fear. “Once it started, it hasn't stopped.”

And if I was right, it wouldn't stop … until.

No, I couldn't let that happen. “They need water. Now!”

“We're out, Betha tried to keep down the last swallow we had. I have to—”

Before he could finish, I flew out the door. Taking the creaking stairs two at a time, I raced up the Bowery, weaving between those I could and knocking down more than one person on my way home. Racing up the flights of the stairs, I slammed open our door and abandoned my violin and bow onto the desk. They would do me no good now. In the same motion, I grabbed the water barrel, slammed the lid shut and turned for the door.

Nadir staggered to the bedroom door, his hungover eyes struggled to catch me as I darted back out. All I heard in my wake was his confused call, “Erik? What are you doing with that?”

There was no time. On my way back down the blocks, I collided with half a dozen more in my hectic pace. I did not even spare a curse. There was no time! They needed water—now!

My foot broke through the stair as I mounted it. I stumbled narrowly close to losing my temper. But they did not have time to for me kick and fuss. Recovering my footing, I launched myself anew into the room and scooped up their discarded mugs. Tipping the barrel, I poured out the clean water. “Move aside, both of you. Get some fresh air.”

By the door, Blanjini lingered, his soft voice calling to them, “Let him help.” Brennan stood and gripped Enda's shoulder, guiding her toward the window, both of them pale from worry in the rays of light. I closed the barrel and used it as a seat.

Close to them now, as I held out the mugs coaxing them to drink, I glimpsed the hue. Their skin tinged faintly in blue. My heart sank at the sight. Betha's hand gripped mine and her flighty pulse ticked against my wrist. No, I had to convince myself. I wasn't too late. “Drink now, both of you need to drink to get better.”

Enda clung to Brennan, “We sent for a doctor the moment we could. Sent one of the others before they went off to work. They came back, said the doctor wouldn't waste his time on a place like this.” Her voice became nearly inaudible, “We tried.”

Brennan stroked her shoulder. “But we don't even know what's wrong.”

The word left me like a death knell. “Cholera.” The Blue Death.

I heard them gasp. My fingers brushed against Ronan's feeble grip, now his eyes barely following the motion. I watched the skin change with the pressure. Pale white … and remained so for too long. The tinge of blue, a troubling sign. But, he had swallowed half a mug of water, as had Betha. That would help. “There now. Let that rest a bit. We will try more in a while.”

I forced a smile, leaning back to Betha. She writhed in the hammock, her face scrunched as if her parched eyes longed to cry. But there were no tears to come. She pulled my hand closer and buried her face in my hand as a fresh involuntary bout of diarrhea flowed out of her. The sodden hammock dripped it right beside my feet.

“Sorry.”

“Do not apologize.” I stroked her hair.

She whimpered and squirmed, gripping my hand tighter. “It hurts.”

“I know it does.”

“Make it stop.”

My heart tore at her plea. I couldn't lie to her, my mind scrambled for something to say, some shred of remaining hope at the threshold of this hell. “I am trying. Just try to rest now.”

The silence didn't last long. In a relentless succession, every mouthful of water I managed to get into them came back out, one end or the other. As the sun slipped across the wall, hope steadily died.

I held the mug to Betha's lips, coaxing her to drink. By now she lacked the strength to hold her own head up, her words made little sense, and she fought my efforts.

A cursing from the door turned my head. A man in a tweed hat stood in the doorway. “God, Brennan, your little brats shit up the place!”

Cowed, Brennan hugged Enda tighter, the poor woman long gone into a catatonic state.

My glare cut the man's words short. “Show some decency.”

Taking off his hat, he stuttered, “It's the Bowery Nightingale... and uhhh … Blanjini. Sorry sirs, didna see you there. Is something the matter?”

“Clearly.” That reply was just under my breath as I turned back to Betha. “Another swallow. Good girl.”

More arrived, now silenced by the first man. Soon the tight room packed with sweating bodies as over a dozen residents piled onto the bunks and other hammocks, watching in tense silence.

The hours grew long. Betha and Ronan's color turned bluer. Their eyes barely responded, save for to flinch at the grinding of their tortured bowels. The mug hung limp from my finger, useless now. I shut my eyes and swallowed, my head bowed as hope surrendered to a final throe in my chest. If only there was a way I could take the pain away.

I opened my eyes. I could at least do that much.

Soft as a whisper, I hummed the old melody I had heard in my youth. A lullaby sung by a mother to her child nestled in bed as I'd watched from a distance, starving for such a simple gesture. The words I remembered well, but they were not in the proper language. All it took was to translate them for the sake of the children.

From the moment I sang, I saw the poison of my gift take hold. It washed over them, lulling them on a gentle tide and carrying them on my whim as Blanjini's violin joined me in the solemn melody.

“Do not fear the shadows of the night, the world cast from the moonlight. Ever watch, ever waiting the star's shine to guide your way home. Dance in the world of your making. Laugh in the fields of your dreams. Look to the horizon when the dawn calls you home.”

Betha and Ronan's eyes eased closed, their bodies lost all tension. Cast by the balm of my voice, their twisted grimaces faded as they drifted away from this world of suffering.

I brushed my fingers in their hair, struggling to keep my throat from tightening, drawing out the last line. “Look to the horizon when the dawn calls you home.”

Their hands fell from grasping mine to lay slack, shifted only by their shallow breathing.

There. They would feel no more pain.

Blanjini stood behind me now, his hushed voice barely above a whisper. “That song, it's a Romani lullaby.”

“I know.” I rose, painfully slowly.

Enda edged forward, her eyes widening as I backed away taking refuge in the shadows. She grasped their hands and shook them. “Wake up! You have to wake up!” Tears stained her cheeks.

Neither child so much as flicked an eyelash as she grabbed their shoulders and shook their frail bodies.

She rounded on me, grasping my shirt as her panicked eyes pleaded. “Please, Nightingale! Do something.”

I could not meet her desperate gaze. My eyes fell to the floor as no words came to me. I was not enough to stop this.

“No!” Enda screamed, her fist pounded on my chest repeatedly. I did nothing to stop her.

At long last Brennan, recovered himself enough to embrace her, hugging her tight as she thrashed against the cruel shores of fate. Her pleading sobs muffled in his shirt. “Not my babies! I can't lose any more! Oh God, Brennan, do something! Save our children.”

His hollow eyes cast my way. All I could manage was a single slow shake of my head.

Gripping her tighter, Brennan rested his head on hers, his tears drenching her hair. No matter how the heart breaks, there are only so many tears. At long last, Enda swallowed her final sob and pushed off from Brennan. She drifted to the hammocks, caressing their cheeks and whispering to them of lush green fields filled with clover, babbling brooks and rainbows. In clipped sentences she built a dreamworld for them, glimpsed with eyes that could cry no more.

Brennan rubbed her shoulders, adding to the dreamscape with a bittersweet smile. A mighty horse to carry them wherever they longed. With an abundant mane for Betha's hands to braid.

I touched my tangled hair, already missing her habit. They had only arrived less than a month ago, chasing a dream of verdant fields. It would end far short of that … in a far sparser field.

The silence stretched out in the terrible vigil. No one stirred as their breaths grew shallow. Ronan's tiny chest rose and fell one last time. Enda and Brennan stiffened. My eyes drifted to Betha. A death rattle answered.

I could not find the words as I closed my eyes. _Wherever Ronan went, Betha followed._ Right to the bitter end.

But this was not over.

With a leaden weight in my chest, I placed a hand on Brennan's shoulder drawing his weary gaze my way. “I am deeply sorry. And even more so for what I must say now. We must bury them swiftly to prevent the spread.”

Sorrow twisted in his eyes. His voice almost detached as he glanced out the shattered window to the decrepit buildings. “All the family is back home in Ireland. There's none here to mourn them, save us.”

Fetching the barrel, I gestured to the northwest. “Make the preparations quickly. I will meet you at the potter's field.”

Blanjini's grip on my wrist stalled me. “I will stay with them.”

I squeezed his hand and dashed back down the stairs, struggling to keep from choking. Not yet. I could not break down yet. Fortunately my home was on the way. Bleeker was just a few streets south of the place, I could cut west on there and take Wooster up to Fourth. A winding path took me to the corner of the public cemetery.

Opening our door, I hardly remembered the blocks I must have walked to reach home. Setting the barrel back down, I picked up my violin and stared into the grained surface, polished by the oils of my hands. This companion … so long at my side … traversing the world. My stolen friend.

“Erik?” Nadir's voice nearly startled me. “What was all that about earlier? Where have you been all day?”

The moment I turned, he took a step backward. I could not fathom what I looked like.

His nose wrinkled for a moment as his glance shifted between my eyes and the violin. “That was what confused me. Why you would leave her behind. The sun is setting. Except for Saturday, you never play approaching twilight.”

“Unless there is cause.” I felt the extreme control of my voice. Heard it in the tone. All I could do to keep the primitive cry building up inside me from tearing out.

“Cause?” He cocked his head. “Erik … what could … ” A sharp inhale stalled him. “You look as though someone died.”

I closed my eyes slowly, forcing them back open to keep the tears from coming.

“Who?”

My hand drifted to my hair, tracing the long strands that would never be braided again. “So young … the Sheehan children, Betha and Ronan.”

His brow furrowed. He knew their names from my complaints of their daily antics. “I saw them just last night. Vibrant as ever, full of life. What could have happened?”

I fought the urge to shudder and utterly failed. “If you had smelled it … I assure you, there is one time in my life I witnessed such a torment. The time I witnessed scaphism.”

He blanched. “Scaphism? Erik, that is a myth, simply a story designed to terrify enemies! No Persian actually performed that.”

I slashed the air with my hand, rounding on him! “The khanum certainly made it a reality! Oh yes, one of her pleasant little surprises to me was the gift of a demonstration of this treatment on a poor wretch.”

Nadir grasped his throat as though I were throttling him. “No. I heard everything she did to try and impress you. Everything that happened in the palace.”

I lost the battle. “You think that bitch would try that in the palace? There was hardly an available swamp.” The vision of the poor man's fate, the very memory I had banished earlier, surged back to me along with the twisted smile of that demented she-devil grinding her claws into me, drawing out my darker side. She had fashioned me into her court assassin. How proudly she sat upon the boat as her servants rowed us out into the middle of the fetid swamp to the post where the set of boats had been tied. In truth it was more like the hollowing out of two logs, carved so that one covered the other. Inside, the body of a captive man, his crime unknown to me, secured in such a way as to leave his head, hands and feet outside through carved holes. Tied in place, he could not draw in from the sun. Already he had endured several days of her special treatment. I was forced to watch as his jailer stuck a hollow reed into his mouth and poured in a mixture of milk and honey. The khanum took great pleasure describing how the stomach distended from the daily force feeding. The reed had barely been extracted before the man began to cry out, his pleas cut short by a torrent of vomit. Inside the hollow boats came a rumbling as the man's uncontrollable bowels expelled what it could not possibly hold. The scent of the rich feces mixed with the foul stench of the man's flesh, rotting from the acid burns of lying in his own filth as insects ate him alive, nearly made me wretch. One of the few times I had broken my iron composure in those courts. The mercy of death for this man had been many days off. I'd been made to witness when the boats were opened to reveal his carcass.

This was the one time in the whole of my life an odor managed to surpass the gut wrenching horror of that experience. God knew I had subjected men to vile fates. But there was a line, and she served it up with a ravenous smile, devouring me with her eyes.

“How … ?” Nadir stuttered. “It was my job, my duty … how did I not hear of this?”

“There were a great many things you were not privy to, Daroga, I assure you!” I was shaking, with fury, with shame, with frustration. Taking a deep breath, I forced composure. Rising up to my full height, I clutched the violin to me. “Now is not the time to dwell on the rosy hours of Mazandaran.”

He flinched but held out a hand. “Erik … you did not tell me what happened.”

My eyes fell to the floor as I turned, halfway to the door. The word left me like a solemn curse. “Cholera.”

Nadir longed to say more. His eyes flashing wide spoke volumes. He stepped toward me but that effort failed to keep me there, as I turned on my heel and left him standing there.

I did not have time for conversations now.

A red glow lit the horizon as I reached the potter's field. Three figures stood against the gathering night. Blanjini leaned on his stick. His face turned to me as I approached the four block barren field. The dirt saturated from the recent rains verged on mud. There wasn't a single marker, not a stone or even so much as a stick cross. The only evidence of this cemetery were the occasional indentations where the ground had sunk.

The paupers lot … all our lives were worth.

Brennan set the shovel aside. At his feet a rough hole I judged to be near a meter deep. It wasn't enough, but the heartbroken expression on his face stilled my tongue. Enda cradled a cloth wrapped bundle tight to her chest and whispered, “I love you, my sweet little Ronan.” She handed him to Brennan who clutched the precious boy to his chest. Tears welled in his eyes and traced lines down his dirt smudged cheeks.

“I'm sorry I could not save you … my son.” Gently, he laid the boy to his final rest.

Enda hugged another bundle, this one slightly larger. In the midst of the wrapping the arm of a little rag doll stuck out. “Keep good watch on your brother, now. I love you, Betha.” She shook as Brennan took Betha in his arms.

This time his words were too choked to be discernible. Gently, he laid her beside her brother, the bundles touching. What he could not say in words, he found another way. Brennan picked up his uileann pipes and strapped the bellows to his arm. At his side, Enda pulled out her tin whistle. The tears had flowed beyond their extent.

Replaced by music.

A lament grew beneath the twilight. The drone of the pipes cried the pain of their loss to the world. Enda's whistle low and slow as the last breaths of life. Blanjini and I stepped beside them, our violins joining in the somber song of the soul. With every exhale of the pipes, I felt the weight exceeding their children's pressing down on their shoulders … the rending of their hearts as they stared into the future that would never be. A future that had been taken from them. The laughter and accomplishments that would have filled Betha and Ronan's days, robbed from their hands. It trembled with each chord in the muggy air pressing down on us in the cemetery. Until the final note died on the wind.

Brennan stood, eyes downcast. “Thank you. Both of you. You meant a lot to them.” He reached for the shovel, but his fingers would not close.

I caught the falling shovel, and the pain in his eyes. Without a word, I turned and began to fill the hole in, one numb shovelful at a time. Until the ground was even. When I had finished, I turned to find Blanjini with his hands on their shoulders. He did not have to say a word, the old man's presence spoke for itself.

Beneath the full moonlight we started to head back to the Bowery in silence, eyes downcast. My heart tore with each step. I longed to scream at the stars like a lunatic to release the pressure growing, threatening to burst. But they were children. Just children I had barely gotten to know.

It almost stopped my steps. The stark reality. They were children. Innocent children cut down.

Lost to my thoughts, I suddenly became aware only Blanjini walked at my side. I glanced over my shoulder to discover Brennan with his hand on Enda's back. She bent over, gasping as her arms clenched tight. In one spasm a torrent poured forth onto the ground.

I raced back to them. This could not be happening. Where was it coming from? “Sheehan, you have to get her drinking, quickly.”

He shook his head. “We're out of water. I'll have to go to the well—”

“The well?” My finger nails must have pierced his skin as he cried out when I seized his arm. “You are not drinking the well water, are you?”

He nodded. “We all are. What else are we supposed to do?”

“Tell me you were boiling it at least!”

Panting for breath Enda eyed me. “Boiling, in this heat?”

“Yes! For your lives it is essential. Did you not know?”

They stared at me, blank eyed before Brennan scratched his temple. “We were just doing what everyone else in the building did.”

I staggered back as it all fell into place. The open sewer on Mott street, the rain raising the water table, the dead curs who had fought over the torn horse's leg, the dead cart horse rotting on the Bowery. My knees practically gave out from the revelation as I stared into their grieving eyes. All I saw was death.

It had already begun.

I threw my head back and screamed at the moon, “ _Merde!_ ”


	7. Chapter 7

_ **Chapter 7** _

_**~Erik~** _

“What's all this fuss about a couple of brats?” Kazimir Nikolaev leaned against the street lamp pole beneath the elevated train rail. The cars rumbled overhead forcing him to wait with a snarl on his face until it passed. “Children die everyday. They die here. They died back home. It's the same thing. It happens.”

The whole morning the street boiled with a different energy beneath the oppressive heat, stealing the usually vibrant hawking of wares and entertainment of all manner of legitimacy. Blanjini leaned against the iron column for the elevated train while I sat on a cross beam not far from him. Our violins lay neglected across our laps as the surge of community music rose to take their voices' place. Early, just after dawn, I had approached Nikolaev who, I regretted to admit, had far more influence than I, beseeching him of the need to dispose of the carcass. Our rather one-sided discussion had been overhead by those setting up shop. Within hours the message traveled up and down the Bowery into the different languages to a profound effect of chaotic voices offering their opinions. Understanding all their tongues I found myself drowning in the onslaught. Plagued by my gift, I sat in frustrated silence.

Blanjini rubbed his ear and sighed. “Did you sleep last night?”

“My eyes never closed.” My hand steadied me against the rusted iron. In truth I knew what dreams would have come if I had. I had not been willing to subject myself to that torture. Instead, I had spent the entire night planted on the windowsill to keep myself from pacing. All the while my betraying eyes kept staring at the buildings, imagining the fate of those within in vivid detail. No matter what I tried, I could not stop those waking nightmares from whispering to me.

“Nor could I.” Blanjini drew his knees up tighter. “I couldn't stop thinking about last night. The closing of the eyes for the final time. What waits for us beyond? I have my faith, but … ”

“No one truly knows.” I shifted, sending a cascade of rust down to collect beneath my hanging feet. “Let us hope we are not forced to learn the answer soon, my friend.” How often I wondered if my twisted nightmares were a mere preview of what awaited me when the reaper finally chose my moment.

He cocked his head, milky eyes narrowed. “Are you afraid, Nightingale?”

Oh yes, if I was not lying to myself, I was petrified of what might lie beyond death's gaze. I swallowed the bitter truth. “I fear that the gates will not be prepared for the arrival of so many … ” regardless of which gates one might expect.

The conversations around us intensified as Kazimir thrust his finger at Annushka, nearly knocking her to the ground. “That horse isn't from our ward! Didn't you see the cart it was attached to? It was through here constantly. Belongs uptown. It's their responsibility.”

Artyom twisted his hat. “But Nikolaev, have you not seen? Even up to the north dead animals are often left to rot for weeks. I doubt they'd ever bother to come back here for it.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to dispose of an animal that size? This isn't a pony or a God-damned goat. This is a draft horse we're talking about. We'd need to butcher it. And what butcher is going to waste his time cutting apart an animal he can't even use. No. I'm not going to ask that of anyone for something so commonplace.”

Artyom opened his mouth and raised a tentative finger.

Kazimir loomed over him, and roared. “That's final!”

Cowed, Artyom nearly dove behind his hand-drawn cart.

I shook my head but it was far from the only conversation contributing to the ruckus.

Oisin handed some fruit to Nuala from his cart as he remarked, “If it's true though, I remember Ma telling me of what happened back in the old country when cholera broke out. Nearly lost the whole family.”

Nuala held her shawl tight at her throat. “That's terrible.”

“Mmm hmm, was so fast, took all of her siblings. She was the only one to make it through. Were that not so, I would not be alive.”

Right beside them Cornelio Moretti faced a crowd of panicked folk screaming in rapid Italian so fast he couldn't answer one before the next layered over it.

“A disease running through the Bowery?”

“What will we do? How can we protect ourselves?”

“How bad is it? Do we need to leave?”

“We don't need to leave, we're hearty folk, a little illness won't hurt us. Who is the liar who started this panic?”

“Is this real?”

“How can this be happening?”

“Everyone looks fine. How do we know this is even happening?”

He threw his hands in the air. “Please! Please! One at a time. I only just heard a half hour ago. No one is doing anything yet. The alleged children died last night and we don't even know who they are.” Just in that one moment he lost control of the conversation again.

“Weren't you listening?” Allessandro crossed his arms. “It was the Sheehan children.”

“New arrivals. They hadn't been here long. They brought it here!”

“Couldn't have. Too long for cholera.”

“Cholera? Oh good God, save us!”

“Everyone calm down, you're overreacting. Children get sick. No doctor came so how the hell do they even know what it was?”

Scilla rapped her walking cane on the cobblestones, Cornelio's mother raised her rheumy eyes to the man who last spoke. The elderly woman pointed an age-tremoring finger my way. “The Bowery Nightingale witnessed their passing. It was he who raised the alarm.”

At the sound of my nickname, despite the different languages, the chatter came to an abrupt halt. Gazes turned my direction in a discomforting tide and I fought the urge to slide down from my perch and hide in the shadows of the column. Behind my mask I held my breath, eyes glancing around for any sign of a threat. Certainly many were upset with this news, and I, now identified as the harbinger, considered I might pay the price for its delivery.

Cornelio knelt down to be closer to his mother's ear. “Are you certain?”

“Foolish boy!” Scilla smacked the grown man hard over his head with her cane. “As deaf as your father! Of course I am sure. Do I ever say a word I don't know to be true?”

“No, mama.” He rubbed his head.

Planting her cane on the ground, Scilla Moretti had most of the attention back on her as she cleared her throat. “Unlike **some** late risers, I was hanging the laundry out the window when I heard the Bowery Nightingale pleading with Nikolaev. I did not understand their words, but I know tone when I hear it. I came downstairs and discovered Rosalia setting up her cart for the best spot, as she does every morning. She understood and was kind enough to translate for me. I may be old, but I am no fool. That man knows what he saw.” She nodded my way.

Cornelio approached, surrounded by others. The crowd growing by the tense, silent, seconds. “You are certain … this is really … ?”

I had never intended for this. That was precisely why I had approached the first man of influence I had glimpsed this morning. Who was I for this lot to listen? To them I was a musician, a performer, nothing of consequence, I had kept so much more than simply my name close to the vest. Blanjini had greater sway than I. Leveling my gaze at Cornelio Moretti, I straightened up, still seated on the iron crossbeam. “I am.” The two simple words rang grim in the crowd, drawing out a few gasps, and as expected a considerable amount of scowls.

I handed my violin down to Blanjini and tucked my heels beneath me, rising to stand on the beam. “Last night I witnessed the blue death take two of the residents of the Bowery.”

“Children.”

I held out a hand. “Yes, but being so small they are the most vulnerable to cholera. And they were not the first victims.”

Eyebrows knit even as the whispers of translations carried through the crowd.

“Not the first, Nightingale? Than who?”

I pointed toward the alley. “Two street curs found deceased on Saturday evening.”

“Street curs? We're to fret over stray dogs, now?”

“Days before they had fought over a limb from the draft horse. When Blanjini and I came upon them last night their corpses were desiccated.” The multitude of blank stares told me something was lost in translation. “Dried out.”

Now they turned to Blanjini, pleading in their own tongues. “Is this true? Did this happen as he says?”

He nodded solemnly, and replied in Russian, “I was with him when he saw the dogs, both when they were fighting and when we stumbled upon their corpses.” That knit even Kazimir's brows. But he was not finished, his hand swept the crowd. “Sunday, yesterday, for much of the day did any of you hear us playing?”

A wave of head shaking ran through the group.

“Because neither of us were here. I assure you, we would have preferred not to have witnessed what he had with the Sheehans.”

I took over. “Last night around twilight we assisted them in the burial of Betha and Ronan after attempting to save them from their fate.”

“Impossible!” Kazimir crossed his arms. “I saw them myself at the celebration. She danced with you!”

“Have you ever witnessed the devastation of cholera?”

He shook his head, challenge in his voice. “Have you?” A chorus of others echoed his reply before he silenced them. “Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then I say again, how would you know?”

I heaved a sigh, my eyes drawn to the ground by the weight of the memories. “Because I have seen its wretched grasp and will never forget it.”

“Where?” he demanded.

“During the siege.” My voice grew distant as I tried to control the path of the memories. “Trapped behind the blockade, many starved as supplies ran out. Unable to access any crops, the populace took to slaughtering whatever source of meat they could find, including rats, merely to get by. That alone brought many to the brink before the cholera outbreak hit Paris.”

“Paris?” Kazimir's eyes narrowed. He wasn't the only one.

When word reached Cornelio he scratched his temple. “You're a Frenchman?”

Shit, how had I let even that much slip out! “I belong to no nation. It matters not. I was in Paris during the siege. What it taught me was how swiftly the disease can decimate a captive population once it takes hold. By the narrow thread of our means here, we are held captive by poverty.”

Kazimir raised his hand in the air and pointed toward the distant horse carcass. “But how does that smelly thing have anything to do with this?”

I shut my eyes against the struggle of ignorance. It was not his fault he did not have this knowledge. “The horse had it when it died, the cholera was in its feces. The recent rains washed it into the water table from the horse's remains and into the well water. All it takes is swallowing—”

He stomped a foot. “I do not swallow horse shit!”

“You do if you are drinking the well water without purifying it in some way. We may already be too late, but one means of stopping this from getting worse is to dispose of that carcass.”

Their eyes stared up at me. Fear, concern, doubt. It all mingled as they glanced to one another.

Kazimir spat at the street. “The rich bastard who owns it needs to get rid of it. It's his duty!”

“Your ignorance will not save anyone from this dire fate.”

Cornelio furrowed his brow as Rosalia translated. He stepped forward and rested a hand on the column. “Mama Scilla knows of this cholera too. I will not risk her cane over my head bringing me to an early death. I say to Nikolaev since when have they ever retrieved their dead livestock from our wards? They leave them where they fell. Why would we assume they would ever lower themselves to such a task?”

This time I translated for Kazimir's benefit, which only served to sour his mood as he shouted back, “It doesn't matter! It's the owner's duty. We don't have the resources for this mess!”

As Cornelio heard the reply he scowled, but slashed the air with his hand and turned to me. “I will talk to my cousin the butcher. This will not please him, as the meat is rancid. It is long since time for the removal regardless of a potential illness.”

“If he complains about such a task,” I raised an eyebrow unseen behind my mask, “remind him how difficult it will be to sell his wares to the dead.”

Cornelio tugged on his hat and vanished into the crowd.

I heaved a sigh of relief. The removal of the source one critical step in this. I had no way of knowing how deep the cause of this had penetrated. Time would reveal that detail.

Through the crowd, a familiar silhouette caught my eye. Trudging with fallen shoulders, Brennan Sheehan wandered like a lost soul. I was not the only one to see him.

Nuala waved and caught his attention. “Brennan, lad. Shouldn't you be at work? Where you off to?”

His gaunt face turned her way, eyes distant and haunted. “Work? What work? I stayed with my children … their lives slipped away … buried them last night. I missed one day. One day and it's gone.”

“What?” Nuala came closer to him. A hand resting on his shoulder, her brow furrowed.

His face fell into his hands as he sobbed. “My job. The factory turned me away. One day and it's all over. What will I do?”

“Oh Brennan, something will come, you'll see—” She couldn't finish.

Brennan's breath grew short, his hands covered his mouth and in a desperate dash he ran for the middle of the street. A moment later all eyes turned to stare as he vomited. Breathless, head hanging, hands grasping his stomach, he staggered down the Bowery.

“Nightingale?”

I rested a hand on Blanjini's shoulder, my gaze following Brennan's weaving path through the crowd. There were over a dozen living in that one room. He would be tended. Besides, I had to consider the amount of fresh water I had left in my barrel.

My bow rose to my violin. It was not why Blanjini had called my name, but I did not have an answer to his unasked question. I chose to escape into music. The melodies were not as joyous as the day wore on. A handful of coins rattled in the coin pouch waiting for us to decide we'd had enough. That time did not come so early.

Every moment I thought to call the end of our daily ritual some vague sense teased another song into my brain. And so we kept playing beneath the elevated train long past the normal hour, as the sun approached the horizon.

A young boy I had seen the other night approached me, his shy eyes seeking refuge at our shoes. “Blanjini, Bowery Nightingale, I was sent to fetch you.”

As if the reaper himself whispered it in my ear, I knew why.

_**~Erik~** _

The stars shimmered through the haze when I opened my eyes, the last chord of the lament still vibrated the strings in tune with Blanjini's. His fingers shifted, letting the tone warble for as long as it remained. My eyes stared through the freshly disturbed dirt.

We were not alone in the potter's field. Cairbre held the shovel in his calloused hands, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty kerchief. I recognized him as the man who had cursed coming home the other night. Keiran, the young boy who had fetched us, gripped his father's pant leg, his toes curling into the loose dirt. Young eyes, so vacant, ungrasping of mortality. Cairbre reached down and stroked his son's overgrown hair, his own eyes hollow as he stared at nothing. A handful of others from the cramped apartment stood in a semi-circle.

At last the voices of our violins ceased. We lowered them to our sides. No words spoken as the moon cast our shadows over the fresh grave. Another one. I cast my gaze over the barren field in search for how much room remained to receive what was coming.

Not nearly enough.

Cairbre bowed his head. “Thank you, both of you for coming. We didn't know what to do. None of us play, and we knew … ”

I held up a hand. “There is no need.”

“But there is.” Cairbre's reply was cut short by his son tugging on his pant leg. He handed the shovel aside and picked up the boy who hugged him close. “We had to do some form of gesture, I mean there should have been the wake, and so much more. But there was no one here to mourn them.”

My eyes shut on their own. Both of them, Brennan and Enda lie side by side in the earth now. Enda had lingered overnight passing in the early afternoon. Brennan had followed her hours later. By Cairbre's haunted eyes I suspected what he could not say. The brutal details of their end. Dread lingered in all of their eyes.

An older boy brought a bundle to me and placed it at my feet. “The only thing of value to pay you. You can make more use of these than we can.”

I bent down to find Brennan's pipes and Enda's tin whistle. I had never played wind instruments, mainly because of the mask and the effect of the deformity on my lip made it difficult if not impossible. But the uileann pipe was a different design, not requiring my lung. I lifted the bundle, caressing the fabric of the bellows, aged and well weathered. Visions of Brennan rocking back and forth captivated by a ditty rushed to me.

No. I could not play these. But I would protect them from being lost.

Somberly, they turned back toward the Bowery in a silent procession. Across the field I caught a shadow drifting toward us. A broad shouldered man held a lantern before him. A gust of wind blew in from the sea as I turned my gaze back to the grave, waiting. The tinge of rain stung my nose, what I had of one beneath the mask. Damn it. Not more rain to complicate things.

Kazimir Nikolaev came to a halt at the grave side. His lantern squeaked on the ring. The tiny flame added light to the mound of dirt. Even in the darkness I could tell his color had lightened by several shades. “I come bearing my deepest apology to you, Nightingale. You … ” his voice lost any semblance of power, shivering to a whisper, “were right.”

I did not turn to face him, keeping my gaze on the Sheehan's final resting place. Once more I banished all emotion from my voice, the only way I could force the words out. “How many?”

He swallowed, head dropping into his head. “What the hell can we do?”

I did not think he would appreciate my honest answer. Silence stretched as I searched for an alternative. “Cholera has no care for creed or ethnicity. If left unchecked it will take us all. You see here what we must do. There can be no time for ceremony.”

Blanjini shook his head. “Many will cry sacrilege.”

“Explain to me Blanjini what is more important, maintaining the rituals for the dead or preventing more from joining them?”

Kazimir's lantern shifted as he faced me. “Preventing more of this. But we need a plan. Already there is … ”

“For the sake of the Bowery get the word out tonight.”

Blanjini held up his bow. “Looks like I have a new purpose.”

I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sadly, we both do. Tomorrow I dread what we _must_ do. But we have already given this pestilence ground.”


	8. Chapter 8

_ **Chapter 8** _

_**~Nadir~** _

Notes drifted through the muggy air penetrating my dreamless sleep. The languid strains of a violin toyed with my consciousness. I buried my head in the pillow in a vain attempt to block it out, but the song remained doggedly persistent.

Damn you, Erik, and your infernal habits.

Bad enough that he had not returned until near midnight. The man didn't sleep like he should to be rising before the dawn. How could he play his violin at such an hour? I needed more rest if I was to subject myself to the work lines today. Hard enough to be selected on a good day. Worse if I was left bedraggled. Not everyone could persist on a few hours of sleep here and there, especially at my age. Though, if I was honest, Erik was not much younger.

I inhaled, selecting my strongest words to berate him.

The mattress shifted beside me.

I opened my eyes and glanced over my shoulder to find Erik crawling out of bed with a yawn. His mask loosely gripped in his hand as he shuffled out into the other room. The curious music continued uninterrupted.

Erik certainly possessed miraculous talents. I had known him to be able to throw his peculiar voice at his whim, for fun or torment of his victim. However, to conjure a violin's melody? Perhaps some new invention was the source? But that did not make sense. Nor did it resemble his signature playing.

Rising from bed, I stretched and fumbled my way along the tight space between the mattress and the wall. The sun had barely risen, mostly hidden by a cast of leaden clouds. By the window, Erik knelt and fed water from the barrel into a wine skin with a long leather strap. I hadn't seen that in ages, he had used it often while traveling in Persia between his labor at the construction site, the palace, and my home where he took refuge from the political games. Tugging his rough work shirt off, the morning light cast the ridged scars on his back in stark relief against his pale skin. The wink of metal just above his waistline betrayed the lethal blade's constant hiding place at the small of his back. He slipped the strap over his shoulder so the wine skin rested against his hip, and in a smooth motion he drew his shirt back on, the untucked hem concealed it from view.

In clumsy motions he slipped his socks over bare feet, and tried twice to knot his shoe laces before success. A sign I knew to mean preoccupation. Rising up, he slipped on a rough wool vest and left it open before his hand reached toward the desk and grasped his mask. Then, he turned for the door not even fetching a cloak.

Nor … it struck me. There in the middle of the drafting table, bathed in the morning light, lay his violin.

“Erik?”

His hand paused on the doorknob. He did not turn to face me as his head remained bowed.

I pointed to the table, drifting toward it prepared to carry it to him. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

His shoulders fell a bit further, I had failed to note their previous angle. “Today is not a day for music.”

Glancing between him and his abandoned companion I took a step in his direction. My mind raced to settle on his purpose, perhaps because of the unusual hour. He was not dressed to meet a client. And prior to his decision to play on the street corners he had rarely left home. “Then … what are you doing?”

Erik gazed back at me over his shoulder with hollow eyes. I had seen this before, when he forced his emotions deep down in an effort for extreme control, usually in response to my insistence on behaving himself. “I have told you not to drink the well water, have I not?”

I nodded. “Of course. You were very clear about that. The water in the barrel only, even for tea. I haven't even touched the well pump.”

He turned back toward the door, eyes downcast. “Take care, Nadir.”

As he passed through into the hall panic struck me with the finality of his voice. “Erik! Where are you going? Don't you leave me alone here.”

From the stairs below me he peered up, his pale blue eye gleamed in the low light. “I will return.”

“When?”

Once more my words failed to keep him. All I heard was his voice as he vanished down the winding staircase, “When I am finished.”

Because of the ache in my knee I could not hope to catch him down the stairs. I dashed back into the room toward the window and my breath caught in my chest. Erik emerged from our building and trudged out into the street to a long row of carts. Empty carts. Some pulled by hand, a few hitched to their one cart horse. Erik strode toward a broad shouldered man I once heard speaking Russian on a Saturday evening. The Russian reached out and grasped Erik's hand, wrapping an arm around his shoulder in a gesture implying Erik's authority as folk turned toward him. Dozens of men gathered in the breaking day, emerging from the buildings and streets around a central figure.

Blanjini seated atop a cart, playing a solemn tune on his violin.

_**~Erik~** _

With the door knob in my hand I steadied myself, taking a deep breath. An odor persisted so intense that I tasted it. I would never get used to this.

Ever since last night beneath the street lamp when Kazimir first placed his hands on my shoulders and stared me in the eyes I felt discomfort at his request. And yet, I knew his reasoning. Some sections of the Bowery bore concentrations. Buildings where the landlord had favored Italians, some others had mostly Irish. Kazimir concentrated on the Russian. Cornelio took the Italian. Quinn focused on organizing the Irish. As of this morning Zemer sought the most populated areas of the Jews and I had heard Ruger took care of the German pockets, though I had yet to met the man. While I … I was cast to the buildings where the landlords had been less discriminatory. The lot where behind every door one never knew what language they would speak. Ages ago I had forced myself to become fluent in as many tongues as I came across because I refused to let anyone get anything by me. Now that blessing became my curse over the last hours.

How I longed for the room behind each door to be deserted. The occupants at their work, children out on the street playing. Fortunately, we had already passed through my building. My own rooms safe from others prying eyes as I had opened the door myself and rapidly closed it, Nadir clearly gone to the work lines. Chastity answered her door, well and concerned about the unusual activity. I would have given anything to return back to my apartment and shut this whole damn thing out.

I turned the knob and the door creaked open. The odor wafted to fill the dim corridor. The gleam of wide eyes caught my attention. Two older children hovered beside a bed, a younger boy lay above the covers straddling what looked to be an arm. As I had seen so many times before, various sleeping places were crammed everywhere.

It shamed me, all this time I had secretly felt frustrated with our living situation. I had never considered our dwelling a _luxury_. Until I had witnessed the rooms of those surrounding us. Not a single dwelling contained only one family. No one had the privacy that was so essential to me.

Immediately the older children clung to one another, wide eyes filled with dread. They shifted in front of the bed, blocking my view of the figure lying there. Only a few of the rooms I had opened did not contain a bucket of vile refuse.

Unfortunately, this was not one of them.

I lifted a hand and gestured them aside. In their eyes I knew what they saw, a reaper come to take their beloved away. The grim task of a body collector in the midst of rapidly spreading epidemic.

They shook their heads. But as I closed the distance they drew back, hands grasped to their chests. At last the boy choked out in German, “Nightingale, please … she's … ”

Beneath the covers lay a woman, pale and shriveled. Her skin blue in the light from the window. I did not need to wait to see if she still breathed. No one of that skin tone drew breath.

I gripped the older boy's shoulder. “I am sorry. She is gone from this world.”

Reaching down I pried the toddler loose from hugging her arm. He struggled and twisted in my grasp. “No! Mama! Wake up … you have to wake up!” The moment his feet hit the ground he sprang toward the mattress trying to climb up again.

I wrapped the sheet around her in a makeshift death shroud, some form of dignity for the deceased, and some vague protection from the evidence of the disease that claimed her. My arms slid beneath her scant weight.

As I lifted her, the toddler hung off my pant leg in a tantrum. “Don't take her! Mama! You can't take my mama!”

I loathed myself for it, but I continued to turn toward the door, dragging the child along with me. His siblings clung to one another in the shadows, faces buried as they fought to suppress their sobs. Halfway across the floor I paused. “Please, come fetch the child.”

His cries renewed. “She's gonna wake up! You can't take her, this is her home. I want my mama!”

When no one moved I crouched down.

The toddler threw himself onto the bundle, clumsy hands fighting with the wrappings. “She can't breathe like that!”

Resting her body on my knee I picked up the child with one hand. “Go back to your brother and sister, now.”

“But … Mama … where are you taking her?”

Before I had tried to explain … the first few times. But my words made little difference to ones so young. And I would not lie to them. She wasn't being taken to a better place. Instead I said nothing and gently pushed him their way. The girl darted forward and wrapped him in her arms, holding him at bay.

Once more I stood, carrying the body out the door and down the stairs. When the day had begun I was swifter. Now I dropped down one heavy step at a time out into the overcast day and to the cart already laden with bodies.

Without a pause, I trudged back into the building and climbed up the flights to the next room, passing two of the men who had come to assist me. The next room mercifully proved vacant.

Shutting the door I heard a desperate voice call from the next flight up. “Nightingale! We need you!”

The panic in their voices drove me swifter, rounding the stairs I darted toward the open door. The men stood in the hall, hands up. Raised voices carried out of the room. Yiddish. Neither of the men with me spoke it.

My teeth ground for a moment, steeling myself as I pressed between the other body collectors and the angry family. An elder man thrust a finger toward me. “Thieves! How dare you come in here and try to steal her. Go, leave us to mourn peace!”

This had clearly been one of the many buildings the Bowery elders' message had not reached. I held out my hands in a gesture of placation. “I sincerely apologize for the intrusion. But it is regrettably essential.”

His eyes narrowed. “No one touches my wife!” Behind him a crowd of folk stood in the midst of preparing the body.

I exhaled a breath. “Unfortunately that cannot be honored.”

“Oh, you will honor it! By religious decree there are procedures that must be followed. There are ceremonies to perform so that she may be received. You desecrate her! How dare you!”

My temper boiled, whether from the oppressive heat, the putrid odor made far worse by it, or the number of times I had already been through this in the course of a few hours with I did not know how many more buildings left to search, it didn't matter. My patience had run out as the vision of the orphaned children downstairs flooded back.

I surged into the room and flung my arm at the man. Catching him across the throat I turned and pinned him against the wall. Behind me the family fled to the corners of the small room. The man struggled against my hold, white-knuckled fists gripping my sleeve. I pushed harder. He struggled to catch enough air giving me the advantage I needed—his tirade silenced. “I tried to be gentle, but there is no time for discussions or petty arguments about time consuming rituals. Your wife is not the only loss. Look out the window up and down the Bowery, open your eyes! She is gone and for the sake of you and your family her burial must be immediate.”

His eyes widened as he struggled, tears in the corners. “No.” He mouthed unable to get enough air.

“I will give you a choice.” I let off a bit of pressure as he stilled. “Stay calm and I will give you one minute. Continue to fight us and I will hold you here until they have finished removing her. What is your choice?”

His hand released the grip on me and reached toward her.

Slowly I let him go, prepared for an assault as I had already faced before. When he didn't, I stepped aside. “Say your last goodbye.”

Falling to his knees, his hand rested on hers. He buried his face in her hair as the family moved closer. No one said a word as they timidly touched her flesh.

Without looking, I waved the men off. Moments later their steps creaked up to the next floor.

The man clung to her, grasping her neck. He had clearly not heard my approach. The second my hand touched his shoulder he jerked around and stared at me in dread.

Softly I whispered, “I am deeply sorry, but there is no more time. Please, stand aside.”

“My wife … I must … this can't … where … ?” He was frozen in place, stuttering like so many before him.

I took the sheet and wrapped her in the cloth, gentle and with as much ceremony as possible. This task was cruel enough as we removed any chance of closure. Lifting her bundled form in my arms I trudged past the man now sobbing on the floor in incoherent sobs. If only they had more time, but that was impossible.

The miasma engulfing the ward denied that possibility.

Laying her body on the cart with the rest we had collected, I heaved a sigh, leaning heavily on the wood. Artyom glanced back into the building. “They called down from the window. There are two more bodies inside. Two men. The rest is clear, and my cart will be full. Take a break, Nightingale. No need for you to climb the stairs again.”

I pulled out the wine skin, grateful I had covered it from the mess now clinging to my shirt. Taking a large swallow I leaned against the cart.

“How many more buildings?”

“You mean blocks.”

An undignified squeal left Artyom. “Did you say … blocks?”

I nodded, taking another draw from the wine skin. About that time two men emerged from the building each holding a large bundle. They hefted them onto the cart.

“No room left.” I pointed up the Bowery. “Let us go.”

One of the men tapped my shoulder. “You look like you need some fresh air. We'll start the next building. Leave any room where there's trouble until you return, all right?”

Artyom took the handle and dug his heels into the muck covered cobblestones. When the cart hardly budged under the weight of the its load, I shoved the back of the cart surging it forward. The wood creaked and groaned as we huffed each breath in the grim procession.

The street was not the same today. No musicians played. No carts sat loaded with wares. No voices called out with offers. Small groups of children watched with wide eyes, the street waifs or the offspring of the factory workers. So much fewer than typical followed at a distance.

Halfway to the potter's field Artyom's meager strength failed him. This was not our first load. I took the strain of the cart, shouldering forward from behind.

Artyom caught his breath and his footing. “Nightingale. You are stronger than you look.”

With my head down I grunted. “Appearances are deceiving.”

“They are. As lean as you are I never would have imagined you had so much stamina.”

Just above my breath I huffed. “Not the first time I have been underestimated. Nor, if I survive this, will it likely be the last.”

We continued in silence until we came upon the line of carts waiting to enter the potter's field to stack the bodies waiting for burial.

Artyom came up beside me. “What did you do before you came here?”

I stared down at my open hand. I was a murderer. A terrible, reprehensible thief. A charlatan and a wreck of a creature. “I … ” had to say something, “ … was a stonemason.”

He straightened and took a step toward me. “Wow! A true tradesman.”

I nodded.

“What happened, why did you come here? Was it for a better life?”

I hated that my voice tripped on the reply, desperate not to reveal the truth. “In … in a way, yes.”

The carts moving forward saved me from his curiosity.

Shadows stretched long across the potter's field. Each building, each floor, each room melded into one another. One long unending sequence of grim discoveries. One heartbreak after another left in my wake as we carried bodies down to the waiting cart to a chorus of mournful cries.

I swore it would never end. The men digging in the field struggled to beat the setting of the sun. The last cart rolled off empty to the sounds of the shovelfuls being shifted. Blanjini's violin played a soft lament over the interments as I staggered his way. He offered a somber smile to me. “Well done, Nightingale.”

I bowed my head. “You brought more comfort today than I.”

He laid his violin in his lap, caressing the strings. “The bird's song is not always one of balm. And I do not speak of her strings, my friend. Your call may yet save many lives.”

“Only the coming days will tell.”

A procession of lanterns swayed toward the men filling in the last of the graves in the corner of the field. Kazimir, Cornelio, Quinn, Zemer, and Ruger stood shoulder to shoulder gazing at the turned over cemetery.

“This is not over.” I joined them staring grimly at the ground. “There were many rooms with the ill, close to the brink but not yet passed. Tomorrow the carts will be needed again. And the day after that. And the day after that.” The population of the Bowery numbered in the multiple thousands crammed into the narrow slums. Even a fraction of the population would overwhelm.

“Disposing of the horse was not enough?” Cornelio glanced my way.

“Not with what I say today. I fear this will be the task of many days as this runs its course.” Weary, I hoped I had answered him in Italian.

Quinn shifted his lantern higher, casting the light across the cemetery. “There is no more room here.”

I was waiting for someone to notice that rather critical detail. Translating Quinn's remark from Gaelic for the others their brows all furrowed.

Pacing a bit Kazimir's lantern cut a strange line of shadows dancing on the ground. “We'll need all the strong diggers we can get tomorrow. Nightingale, word has spread. They know what the carts are for now. Artyom spoke of your strength.”

My shoulders sagged, I knew before he even asked. “The question is where?”

“In a new location we will need someone who can spread directions no matter what their language. That is you. The Bowery will need your skills there.”

Blank stares met me from the other influential men. I translated for them only to be greeted by their nods. But the question remained hanging in the air … This four block area was our only potter's field.

Where?


	9. Chapter 9

_ **Chapter 9** _

_**~Erik~** _

The vague balm of Blanjini's violin that had summoned me from bed wore off by the time I stood at the edge of the selected field. Field, a term I used loosely. The lot was a long block, too soft to build structures on, evidence of the once swampland Manhattan had been. Since it bore no other practical purpose, this lot had been previously chosen as a dump site, mainly for livestock waste disposal. After an exhaustive lantern-lit discussion it was decided, aside from illegally demolishing a building for a semblance of fresh soil, there were no other practical choice, with the current potter's field full. Petitioning the city council for a plot of more suitable land would be pointless, given their less than timely responses in the past. We already knew what their reply would be. What land could possibly be more suitable for our dead than a shit field.

From the gathering in the center of the Bowery, a dozen men had followed me southward to the lot the elders had selected last night. I'd already anticipated the task to be miserable. The ominous sky promised to make it all the worse. We would have but a few hours to break ground before the first carts arrived. At least one shred of luck fell into my favor. Artyom stood beside his cart, loaded with shovels, buckets, rope, scavenged wooden beams, and a long ladder. Everything I'd explained would be essential was waiting for us. The elders had somehow managed to gather the essential tools.

I grabbed one of the shovels and observed the direction of the lot. Today was overcast. Heat generally built as the day wore on. Shade would be more critical in the afternoon. Though the block didn't run in the cardinal directions. I walked to the north-eastern corner to afford us the greatest chance of shade in the upcoming days and thrust my shovel into the sodden muck. About to dump that aside, I turned to find a bucket at the feet of a boy. Daniel's solemn eyes stared up at me.

Others came up beside him. Men holding shovels. Children bearing buckets, the full complement of Daniel's gang—minus two. There was no time to dwell on the absence.

“Once we fill these, dump the dirt over there.” I pointed far enough away, repeating the instructions in several languages.

Leary scratched his head. “Pardon me, lad, but why all the distance? That's a lot of extra work for a single grave.”

I leveled my gaze at him. “That is not what we are doing. The carts will be coming soon. We have until then to reach three meters.”

“Three?” He gawked. “Surely all we need is two.”

My shovel deposited another load into the bucket. “When we are done, the top of the bodies will be two meters down.”

“Bodies? Did you say bodies?”

Patience, Erik, patience. I thrust my shovel blade into the dirt in front of him. “Dig!”

In a steady rhythm, the ground beneath us sunk into an ever growing square pit. When it reached the need for the ladder, I left most of the men to the task. Carrying the buckets up the ladder would prove too exhausting. In less than an hour, with the help of Conall and Salvatore, I rigged a simple crane from the wooden beams, a rock counter weight, and the rope. The work was rough, hardly capable of lifting a stone block, but stable enough for our purposes. I continually had to remind myself this was not a construction site.

There was no time to rest. Once I showed Daniel the trick to using the crane to get the buckets to the top, he turned to the other children and taught them. Down the ladder I went, my shovel shifting the fresher earth now that we were down below the more recent deposits. Here it wasn't quite as foul, the odor more akin to sodden soil than excrement.

Bucket after bucket swung up on the rope in an endless cycle to vanish over the edge of the deepening pit.

Salvatore wiped his brow, narrowing his eyes as he looked above us. “We have to be close.”

Straightening my back, I gauged the height as just above my own. “If this were a typical burial, we would be at the perfect depth.”

If anyone on this wretched island knew how to make bodies disappear, the devil would know it was me. If my calculations were correct, we would be laying to rest at least a tenth of the population. No small feat. And that fraction **only** if fate smiled on us. At the moment, standing below ground level in a future mass grave, things were not encouraging.

“How much further?”

I held a hand just below my waistline.

Salvatore's eyes rolled, I took no insult from his gesture, a mere realization of our daunting task. And in truth we'd only just begun what would be a block long rolling trench. Four meters wide, three meters deep, we would keep digging, laying to rest stacks of bodies behind us until we reached the end, just shy of one-hundred meters long. Then, we would start another beside it. Those details I had not disclosed, hoping against hope that one would be sufficient.

Below ground level, devoid of a breeze, the heat weighed down on us. But to their credit, neither the men nor the children complained beyond the occasional escaping groan. I was not immune to that either under the backbreaking labor. With a final hasty push, I glanced up at the shear wall as I heard the first of the carts clattering over the cobblestones. Blanjini's violin sang a lament to accompany them. If he did here what he had at the potter's field yesterday, he would remain at the grave site now, playing as each cart arrived.

I could not rush up to greet him, though I longed to leave this dismal pit and the overwhelming feeling that the true angel of death loomed overhead waiting patiently to take us all one by one.

Salvatore stabbed his shovel into the pit floor and followed my gaze.

“Yes.” I knew the question he longed to ask as I rammed my shovel against the advancing wall and left it there. Something clawed at me to level the bottom, to plum every wall, to perfectly square every edge in sharp definition. Though it pained me, I banished my sense of perfectionism. The dead would not care one whit about proper dimensions. “We are now deep enough.”

He smiled for one brief moment before he turned to the slope of dirt and mire left to be shifted in a barricade in front of us. His shoulders fell.

Mounting the rickety ladder, I climbed up and peered over the edge. Kazimir discarded the horse reins, jumped off the leading cart and called out, “Where is the Bowery Nightingale?”

“Here.” Still on the ladder, my hands rested on the rung at ground level.

Approaching the edge, Kazimir gazed down at the pit, measuring it with his eyes. “If I had not seen this as a field this morning, I wouldn't believe this had been dug in the span of a few hours.”

Studying the walls I shrugged. “In another life this would be a foundation. However I also would have built scaffolding to ease the work. That is a luxury we do not have the timber for.”

“Scaffolding? Nightingale, you get stranger by the moment.” He lifted a brow at me, but said no more on that matter. Gesturing back to the loaded cart he remarked, “Are you ready for them?”

“No sense in waiting. Use the crane and the rope.” I dropped back down into the pit filling another bucket before Kazimir caught my attention with a sharp whistle. I looked up to find the first bundle hanging overhead.

Just as I had hoped it eased down, guided by my waiting hands. With a quick pull I slipped the knot and eyed Kazimir. “That was a seaman's cargo knot.”

He flashed his teeth in a smile before hauling the rope back up. I had just enough time to settle the first body against the corner before the next came down to start the row beside. That had been my plan. Two rows, stacked a meter high as tightly as we could.

The men behind me continued digging until I had enough stacked in a sloped pattern for stability. Shifting the soil proved a taxing task. I selected the more weary men and explained how to copy what I had done. They took my place receiving the bodies and continuing the stacks as I moved back to battling against shifting the barricade wedge of soil.

Over my shoulder it became like a human run automaton, so like clockwork. We filled a bucket with soil, it went up, a body came down along with an empty bucket. The wedge before us advanced, a wall of bodies chased our heels until we no longer lifted the buckets from the trench. Now the children stood in the pit among us. Forming a line, they handed the filled buckets to the end of the trench. The last emptied the soil over the bodies, starting to fill back in the two meters.

Despite the language barriers, we had it down to precision. Until … I should have known things were going too well.

A crash of thunder rumbled the ground. I turned my eyes to the dark boiling clouds a moment before the deluge struck. Fat drops of rain, so thick I could scarcely see the walls, pelted us. Within seconds the torrent gushing down the sheer sides carried the mire in on us even as the waterlogged ground flooded at an alarming rate. Already it was up to my ankles.

Throwing my head back, I screamed at the sky in what I hoped was French, “Curse you! Have you not taken enough already?” If I didn't rein in my petulant temper, more would join.

Shouting to be heard over the storm, I thrust a finger toward the ladder on the side of the pit. “Out! Take the equipment and get up the ladder. Children first!” I shoved Clover up, she held the hand of a terrified child half her age, the water swallowing their legs. The remaining children scrambled up, each trying to carry an empty bucket to the top, blinded by the rain.

Not a moment too soon they cleared the top. The wall beside me gave way, tumbling into the pit with a massive splash in the deepening water. I threw myself across the trench. A rock slammed where I had been. My heartbeat throttled my ribs. I had come remarkably close to joining the purpose of this pit. Grown men yelped with alarm, rushing up the creaking ladder with renewed vigor to vanish into the rain obscured horizon above.

The moment the ladder was clear, I careened up to the top. Kazimir's hand seized my wrist hauling me over the edge as I doubled over coughing. He guided me along, shouting to others as we took shelter beneath a series of building awnings to wait out the oncoming storm. They were tattered, but some protection from the nature's onslaught.

“Nightingale, are you alright?”

My hand balanced me against the brick wall as I gasped in air. A pool of water welled beneath me from my drenched clothing. I eyed him. “Swallowed some rain … wh—when I … looked up. I will b—be … fine now.” There went my dignity.

From where we stood, we watched the pit edge eroding, falling in on itself with each flash of lightning. Powerless, I remained in the shelter of the awning. No one was getting anything done in this without risking drowning.

Kazimir folded his arms across his chest. “Hope this squall passes soon.” In the gale, I swore he resembled a sailor on watch, but I still lacked the breath to ask him.

I slid down the wall, hands crossed on the shovel's handle as I leaned forward, head bowed to watch the rain drip from my hair. A sodden Blanjini soon joined me, and pulled his violin from beneath his wide tunic.

Conversations broke out to fill the silence. One of the body collectors hugged himself, his eyes distant. “Me and Lieb opened the door to this one room. Couldn't believe it. Seven. Seven folk inside. All of 'em … dead as dirt.”

I nodded at his account, not in the least bit surprised after what I had already seen.

Lieb, at his side, spoke up. “Had to haul 'em all out. One at a time down three flights of stairs. Ran out of sheets. What do you think the landlord will do? Their things are still in there.”

Now Blanjini nodded, his milky eyes turned toward the young men. “The landlord'll be practical for his purposes. Empty the room, sell what he can, return the room to let without a word of what happened there.”

Lieb sat forward, his jaw hanging loose for a moment. “Are we nothing to them?”

I sighed. “Oh, we are something. We are payment, a source of money. When we fail to serve that purpose we become worthless.”

He wanted to say more but only his mouth moved.

I bowed my head again, shutting my eyes against the memories. “Naivete is a blessing, boy. Cherish not being well acquainted with the cruelty that blights mankind.”

Only the rain answered me. I felt their eyes on me, but did nothing to acknowledge it. I had no desire to acquaint them with my personal experiences. The storm continued for over an hour before letting up to a steady drizzle.

At the heaven's piss poor mercy, I sloshed through the standing water toward the pit. My heart sank at the pool of muck awaiting us below surrounded by unstable walls. I knelt down and watched the edge crumble beneath me. “Shit.” Seizing a bucket, I tied the handle to the crane rope and threw it down with a splash. Such a ridiculous task, but I did not have a pump. Roughly two-thirds of a meter of water would all have to be bailed out by hand before we could continue. The carts groaned up bearing full loads, wheels splashing in the standing water.

I should have known that fate would not smile on us.

Not if I was involved.

_**~Nadir~** _

The door creaked open accompanied by the squelch of footsteps. I had no luck earlier in the work lines and had returned before the abrupt afternoon storm. Since it hit, the rain only lightened, continuing on as the sun set behind the heavy storm clouds. I grinned, holding the empty collection bucket in my hand. The apartment was stuffy from the added heat from the coal stove, but with some trial and error, I had managed to run two full buckets through Erik's contraption in his absence. Considering my fear of heights, I was quite proud of myself as I had fetched the bucket twice from the precarious hook outside our window, clear of the roof line. Though I did not relish the task, I could not wait to brag of my achievement.

Erik shuffled past me, absolutely drenched from head to shoes. Those he kicked off toward the door and let them fall where they may. Flopping into the chair at his desk, he pulled off his soaked socks and flung them closer to the coal stove. They stuck to the floor. Beneath his dripping hair, he barely blinked.

Taking a step closer I let the bucket's handle squeal a bit. “The barrel is nearly full of rain water. I mean, cleaned of course. Like you showed me. I fetched it, twice, when it filled with rain.”

He glanced at the window and pulled the sopping wet leather mask free of his face, discarding it on the table. It came to rest near his violin. Though, from the thin skin making his face resemble a scarcely fleshed over skull, his bared features were difficult. But I swore fatigue pulled on them, weighed down like his shoulders. “The rain … nearly ruined everything.”

The gravity of his tone carried the bucket to the floor where I left it. I still had no idea what he had been up to all day. The rain had washed all evidence of that away. Attempting to spark some conversation, I shifted toward the cooking pot. “Did you work up an appetite today? Surely you must be hungry.”

As he often became when locked in some long term project, Erik didn't react to my suggestion. At length, he picked up his pipe and pressed a small wad of opium into it, lighting it from the stove. Any opportunity to speak to him stolen by the breath of the dragon.


	10. Chapter 10

_ **Chapter 10** _

_**~Erik~** _

The next day found me back at the bottom of the pit, slopping heavy shovelfuls into buckets in a blur of repetitious activity. The sun's harsh rays pierced the overcast sky to torture us all morning. Heat pounded on our backs. Some of the men had not returned to the duty, a few choosing the carts over the mire. Another handful didn't show up at all. I hoped they were tending family members and not among the arriving bundles. As each cart rolled up, I grappled with the urge to check. After a swift briefing to the new hands, we had settled back into a clockwork routine.

Salvatore took over the task of tending the crane. Working from near the top of the slope, I filled the buckets. Without a word, Daniel scrambled up after me to fetch and haul them down, trading them at the bottom for an empty bucket from the chain of children. My perch was precarious, as I risked the chance of a landslide. I considered the risk less than continuing to dig at the base alone. Someone had to ease the load at the top.

By now everyone was caked with the thick mud, staining us all in shades of dark brown. Rivulets of sweat wore slightly cleaner streaks as the day ground ever onward, one shovelful at a time.

The sun beat down directly overhead when Salvatore's whistle disrupted the monotony. “Hey, Nightingale.” I had gradually worked my way back down to the floor of the pit. The overhead sunburst blinded me. I had to block that with my hand to even see him as he gestured for me to come up.

Climbing up the ladder, I came above ground for the first time today and followed his curious gaze. Protected by a colorful shawl draped over her hair, Allegra stood beside a cart with a large bucket in her hands. Loaded on the cart I spied a large cast iron pot beside a stack of bowls. A wooden keg stood accompanied by mugs. Yankel tapped that keg with a spigot.

When I cocked my head at her, she nodded toward the cart. “Uncle Conti sends his regards. He assumed none of you would have time to return home for a meal, so he sent lunch.”

As was habit when I worked, hunger had all but vanished from my consciousness. However, I was not shielded from thirst. The sun's punishing rays long since threatened to spoil my water rationing. I was one of the few who brought my own water, so I doubted I was the only one who would appreciate a mug of ale. Besides, Conti's brews were practically liquid bread.

Leaning over the pit, I whistled and signaled a stop, gesturing them all up. Why use words when a hand would do. I approached Allegra and eyed the bucket as she lifted it, prepared to pour it. “It's been boiled, as you insisted we all do. And I have a large barrel to refill this with. Here, let me.”

I rolled my sleeves back as the men gathered in a line behind me. Holding out my hands, I scrubbed the muck off them as she trickled the still warm water. My fingers free of the grime, it felt good to flex them unhindered. “My thanks.” I shook them off and moved out of the way for the next worker.

He shook his head a bit with a wary expression, but Salvatore pushed him forward and pointed. Some things did not require words. And I was beginning to appreciate this man.

I fetched a bowl of stew from the pot, mostly vegetables and broth, but I would not be choosy given that I had not been playing my violin on the street corner, our own supplies were running close to cabbage water. Perhaps that was another reason I'd been less than enthusiastic to eat. As I glanced back at the line of grave diggers, all currently devoid of their livelihoods. Instead of reporting for their they work, they volunteered to descend into this current hell without compensation. I knew that problem was not mine alone. We didn't have time to make a living, we were dealing with dead.

Yankel held out a freshly filled mug of dark ale with a soft smile. The boy looked so much better even in the midst of this disaster. “For you, Nightingale.”

“Did you brew this?”

“No sir. Master Conti did.” He filled the next mug from the spigot. “But I think he said he would teach me soon, once we have more common words, that is.”

“Good work.” I held up the mug and took a long grateful draw of the rich ale. I doubted the boy even knew that his placement would likely ensure his survival. The process of brewing was proven to aid in survival through the history of epidemics. I didn't have to second guess if this was safe.

I crossed Centre street near Franklin and settled my back against the cattle shed in a bit of shade and dug into the stew. The crew drifted along the edge of the street, grabbing a bit of shade wherever they could find it. Once Allegra had finished washing the children's hands, she dished up a final bowl and took a mug toward Blanjini, guiding him to a patch of shade. I hadn't realized he'd been playing the whole morning until the music's absence became apparent.

Allegra drifted toward Scilla, seated in the shade where she had been since we arrived. I'd heard her counting out loud in her rather authoritative tone. At first it hadn't been apparent why. And then it dawned on me. She counted each body as we lowered it in the pit in a long running tally. After embracing the elder woman and exchanging pleasantries, Allegra wandered my way, pointing to the mug. “Another?”

It shamed me, but I gasped as I finished the last gulp and handed it to her. “Yes please.”

When she returned, I pointed to the men and children all devouring the impromptu meal in ravenous silence. “I do not know how to thank you.”

She folded her hands in front of her. “No need. Uncle decided last night this is what we could do to help.”

“But the food … ” Like so many in the Bowery, Stefano Conti's situation was tight, a delicate juggling act to keep his own family fed one day to the next.

“... Would spoil soon if not eaten. No one is coming right now anyway. This labor is difficult and … ” her eyes made a sudden shift toward the corpse pile waiting to be lowered. Sadly not all of them were wrapped. I caught her target before she forced her eyes to the ground. They had fixed on a brightly colored blanket. Her voice hitched. “ … so important.”

I stood beside her, gazing where she had, trying to guess the connection. Did it even matter. She knew whoever that blanket once belonged to. Softly, I whispered, “Who?”

“My … my sister.” She wiped the tear from her eye. “Uncle took me by the shoulder last night and told me my tears would be better spent helping the living. He asked for my help … for I could not help … the dead.”

I would have embraced her, but she was by far cleaner than I. There were no words to say that didn't sound trite or over-spoken.

“This,” she gestured to the pit in the barren lot across the street, “is such a terrible necessity.”

No. **She** had the words.

Allegra turned toward me and met my eyes. “I don't know how you can do this.”

My gaze trembled, drifting into the ale to stare at my reflection on the dark surface. I found a dirt smeared mask looking back at me. “Because … someone has to.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched on as I sought refuge in the mug. Finishing it, I handed the dishes to her. “Please, express my gratitude to Stefano Conti for this profound gesture.”

Allegra tugged on her skirt in a curtsy.

Over her head something caught my attention. I stiffened, rising up to my full height as a figure wandered down Centre street, weaving between the empty carts where the men sat eating. It was a particularly out of place figure, dressed in blue with bright shinning buttons gleaming gold in the sunlight.

I was not the only one to spy the approach of the officer. The closer he got to the stacked corpses waiting to be lowered into the pit, the slower his approach. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief, forcefully pressing it over his nose.

Not the only one to notice, the diggers grew still and turned tense gazes from their meal to the policeman. Salvatore wandered my way, his eyes fixed on a single point. Dozens of exposed corpses lay beneath the sun. Down in the pit, over fifty were still visible in their tightly packed rows.

Mixtures of fear and hope flickered in the gravediggers' eyes.

I did not court any hope as he stood at the edge of the pit, knocking a small cascade of dirt from the side before he stepped backward and hastily departed.

Salvatore pushed up his sleeves. “I don't like that. Don't like it at all. What if he comes back with officers? We could all be hauled off to prison.”

“That will not happen.”

“How can you be certain?”

Another Italian privy to our words gestured, “Maybe he'll bring back help.”

“Even less likely to happen.” My hand pumped into a fist. A little whisper growing in the silence. I realized grimly it wasn't from anyone surrounding me.

The man crossed his arms. “How do you know?”

Eyes turned to me, even those who did not grasp their words would likely sense their intention. I narrowed my eyes, focused on where the policeman had hastened through. “Because of what I saw.”

They leaned closer to me. The question repeated again and again in a chorus. “What?”

_Tell them what you saw._ The voice, louder inside my head, stiffened me even more. I barely suppressed the grimace. _Come now, you know the bitter truth. Tell them how hopeless this is, Erik, oh Angel of Death. Spread the message of your master once more._

I wasn't his slave anymore. My hand twisted at my side as I fumed against the infernal words.

“Nightingale?” Salvatore broke through. “What did you see?”

My voice and the one inside my head spoke as one. “Disgust.”

_That's right. That officer wanted nothing more than to flee this place and the telltale sign of disease. He didn't care about the bodies. Why? Because none of them are worth anything. No one in the slum is worth the air they breathe. Why do you care, Erik? Around you are humans, part of the race that despises your existence. What brings you here instead of shutting yourself away from all this and letting the plague raze them all to the ground?_

I did not need this internal ranting now! My head jerked back as I squirmed from the voice, yearning to scream a reply. An impossibility. I would not do anything that would lead me to be referred to as …

_Mad? Insane? A freak? Take your pick!_

Salvatore's hand touched my forearm, his eyes filled with concern. “What is wrong?”

Instantly I reached a hand over my shoulder and rubbed it. “Muscle spasm, that is all. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

He shook his head, relief washed over his face. “Not a surprise, really. A broomstick of a man like you, hard to imagine you'd been a stonemason.”

“I have not built in a while. But I was previously involved in several large projects.”

“Any buildings we would know?”

I winced, using the rubbing to cover it. “Possibly.” I saw the curiosity brewing in his eyes, he wanted to ask more. Taking a step toward the pit, I waved to the men. “Back to work. The dead cannot bury themselves.”

_You would know that rather well, now wouldn't you._

“Silence!” I hissed just about my breath, facing away from the men.

Of course that did nothing to quell my insolent companion. As the heat continued to plague us, the voice bantered away until I was uncertain which made me sweat more, the sun or his insufferable teasing.

_Why do you care about them? Do you think you actually have a heart now? That having been loved for a brief moment earned you a pittance on your soul … oh it would be to laugh! A vile creature such as you._

I flung a shovelful into the bucket topping it off and huffed out, “Enough!” I hoped that those around would assume I had referred to the load. I did not look as the bucket vanished to be replaced by an empty one. Of course my effort only earned me a bitter laugh inside my skull.

Leaning into the shadow, I wiped off my neck, taking a swath of sweat with the sleeve. Around me a couple of the men had taken off their shirts, damp skin shining in the now unbroken sunlight. Though it would indeed be cooler, I shuddered at the thought of doing so myself. All the questions they would ask at the sight of my back. Some years back in Persia, I had braved a couple of mirrors aligned perfectly in the privacy of my bathroom and saw my back for the first time. The knotted ropes of scar lines twisted my gut. On bad days, their tender sensation tormented me, bringing back the vivid memories of that vile man who had shamefully displayed me for all the world to laugh.

“Nightingale?”

I'd been leaning against the wall for longer than I thought. Salvatore had traded places after lunch, letting another run the crane. He looked at me now, wiping sweat from his own brow. His eyes studied my mask instantly making me painfully self-conscious.

“Isn't that terribly uncomfortable in this heat?”

I nodded, wiping my neck again. “It is, yes.”

He tossed a hand in the air. “You know, no one would care if you took it off.”

I bowed my head. They most certainly would care, or else in the midst of all this mire someone would mistakenly try to bury me. My fingers brushed the filthy white leather. “I assure you, my mask is quite essential.” He held up a hand gesturing, toward a man who had lost an eye. But I silenced him, turning away from him and seeking refuge in the wall of dirt. “Please, I beg of you, keep to yourself.”

He sighed as I drove my shovel hard into the dirt, knocking a small cascade over my feet.

_Bury you alive. Oh Erik, still so morbid._

More carts clattered across the stones overhead. I didn't have the time to listen.

* * *

_**~Nadir~** _

I tapped my foot on the floor waiting. The hour was late, the sun set near an hour ago and Erik had not yet returned. I had lit the stove again today, heating what remained of our sad stew. He had not eaten yesterday. Only smoked, dragged himself to bed, and vanished with the violin song's bidding close to dawn.

A stair creak warned of his arrival a minute before the door opened. Erik staggered in, shut it and slid down the wall, leaning against it with his legs splayed. A foul odor wafted from him. Head to toe he was smeared with muck.

I didn't mean to, but I took a step backward covering my nose. “Allah! Why do you smell like shit, Erik?”

His eyes drifted to me. “Did I teach you that word?”

“Does it matter? You are filthy. Come, let's get you cleaned up. Take those off, I'll wash them.” I went to the bucket of rain water I had not yet run and poured some into a washing bowl. It was sooty, but would do the trick. Tossing a rag into the bowl, I let it soak.

Erik had not so much as stirred. “We should not waste water.”

“Says the man who looks like he's been tromping through the sewer all day.” I walked across the floor and reached toward him for his shirt. “And who is it that harped about this cholera spreading by the squalor we are forced to live in? Shirt, now.”

He heaved a sigh and grabbed it, tugging the soiled garment over his head. His skin beneath was smeared all over with a mixture of mud and sweat. He tugged the wine skin loose and set it aside. Somehow that had remained fairly free of filth.

“Wash bowl, scrub yourself.” We had another wide tub to wash our clothing in, though this particular time would be a challenge. When I turned around, Erik had stood clad only in his undergarment. In his hands he held the ragged pants. They were dripping from whatever he had been wallowing in. I pointed into the tub. He dropped them in along with the dirt brown socks.

Leaning over the bowl, Erik wearily scrubbed the muck tarnishing his pale skin, a task that proved daunting. He trembled with exhaustion the entire time as pass over pass left behind clean swaths. At last he freed his hair from the leather tie and rinsed it out. The water in the bowl, now black.

In all that time I still was just rinsing his shirt, not even having grabbed the soap yet.

Erik reached for the stack of his rougher clothing and grabbed dry pants and fresh shirt.

I dropped the filthy garment into the washing tub and took the mask from the floor where he had dropped it. Scrubbing the stained surface, I worked my fingers over it trying to restore the color. “The stew is hot. Eat.”

He shook his head. “I am not—”

Hand on my hip, I glared at him. “Eat! You cannot do whatever you have been doing if you are starving.”

For a moment he attempted to scowl, but even that seemed to take too much effort. He slumped back against the shelf, sitting in a cleaner patch of the floor. “Nadir … you have not seen it.”

“Seen what?” I resumed cleaning the mask.

“How hopeless this all is.” His fingers ran through his hair, tracing his scalp, eyes distant. “The bodies, they keep coming. Cart after cart load. The pit keeps growing. We can't even dig fast enough.”

“Explains where all this dirt came from, the potter's field.”

“That filled up Tuesday.” His voice was hollow, lost. “We started a new potter's field yesterday. Gave up on individual graves. A mass interment of the souls lost in the only lot we could find. But we are not fast enough. They keep dying. More and more. I have not told the others, could not even find the words to … we cannot possibly get ahead of this.”

I turned to find his head bowed … a rare sight. Erik—defeated. He stared down into his limp open hands, rough from service. From holding a shovel? I set the mask aside. “Erik … have you been a gravedigger these past days?”

He nodded. “Not that it makes a difference. I have failed to stop the spread.”

“How is this your responsibility?”

“Because I should have seen it... the horse, the curs. The contaminated water. It was all there. I should have seen it. I should have saved the Sheehans.”

I shook my head. “That explains the instruments I found. Erik, don't shoulder this. It's not like you put it into the well water. That was foul to begin with. No one should have been drinking it.”

He held out his hands. “But they were. Some of them, the newer arrivals, they did not know. I should have told them. But it is too late now. Now the the blue death is spreading its vile hand.” He cringed and his hand gripped his head. A sight I had seen before, a sight that troubled me. Erik had occasionally mentioned a voice pestering him inside his head. I had to wonder …

I forced him to look at me and laid a hand on his forehead. “You know, even with the mask, you are vulnerable to heatstroke. Now, let me get you a bowl. You'll feel better once you've eaten.”

He grabbed my wrist. “That will not solve the problem. The Bowery does not have the resources to contain this. As it is now, it will never stop. It will take the lives of all of us here.”

I rested my hand on his. Remarkable to see him moved to such lengths for others, it surprised me. For once he seemed concerned for his own life as well. “Nobody has the resources to help.”

He hung his head for a moment, and then slowly he met my eyes. A strange gleam in his. “Incorrect, Nadir. There are those that do. And they would be wise to be reminded. The men who dig the graves are from factories. Those tending the ill are as well. Without workers, a factory cannot produce, cannot earn profits for those who own them. Those owners serve the city council.”

Shakily, Erik pulled himself up into the chair of his desk. He grabbed a sheet of parchment and his ink quill and began scrawling feverishly.

I fetched a bowl from the cooking pot and set it on the top of the paper.

He glanced at it, his expression souring. His right arm pushed it out of the way as his left hand continued to write.

“Erik, you can eat and write at the same time.”

He made a rude noise, but at last his free hand took a spoonful without breaking stride. The scratch of the quill filled the air while I scrubbed, until Erik slammed it down with a curse. “What?”

He muttered into his arm. “I wrote the damn thing in French!”

Calmly, I grabbed a fresh piece of parchment and pushed it in front of him. “Slow down, and think. You're rushing.”

Straightening up, he took a deep breath and leaned back over the paper. This time the strokes came slower, more precise, the penmanship resembling his fine script. He paused from time to time, taking a few mouthfuls of the stew before at long last he picked up the letter. His eyes roved over the lines. With a sharp nod, he slashed a couple letters as a signature and pushed up from the desk.

“Where are you going?”

He held up the folded letter and coin. “To send this with a runner to city hall.”

He was rushing, again. I held up his mask. “Without this?”

Erik reached up to his face, eyes widening in revelation.

“You really are tired.” I grinned lopsidedly and handed it to him.

With his mask in place, Erik dove barefoot down the stairs leaving the door open in his wake. I stood at the window and watched him race down the Bowery intercepting a small boy. Less than a minute later, the boy tugged his cap. He took the letter from Erik and flicked the coin in the air, racing off into the night.

I only hoped Erik had the sense to be … diplomatic.


	11. Chapter 11

_ **Chapter 11** _

_**~Nadir~** _

Even given all Erik's gifts, I would not want to be him for anything. His unfortunate deformity hardly figured into that conclusion after last night's reminder. Over the course of time I had learned the price for his genius repeatedly reared up, undermining his sanity in terrible fits. And last night, that beast I so dreaded clawed at him again.

Sometime in the early morning Erik thrashed in bed, fitting in the grasp of some brutal nightmare. For over an hour he hissed and spat invectives in various snatches of languages. Some I knew, many I did not. His hands formed claws, violently slashing out in blind attacks. Fortune saw that he faced away from me so he did not strike anything with a pulse. All the while I lay perfectly still in observation of a state that with any normal man I would have attempted to wake him. 

But  _this_ was Erik, he was far from normal. In such a state he was prone to a temper that had become legendary among the crew in Persia. Legendary for its sheer lethality. This was not the first time I had witnessed him in the grip, nor the most concerning. That time belonged to the voyage here, secretly locked in the cargo hold of an ocean steamer where if he'd lost the thin thread of control and lashed out I would have had nowhere to flee.

Still, that memory of survival was no small comfort as I watched him repeatedly wrestle with some unseen force. At long last, Erik had sat bolt upright, eyes staring into the darkness and panting like a running dog. Muttering in one of the multiple languages that I didn't know, he got up and fled to the other room where he paced for hours. The creak of the floorboards and his moon-cast shadow betrayed his restless activity. As his muttering hardly ceased, I dared not approach him out of fear for my life. His knife still concealed beneath his waistband. This was a state where raw instinct ruled reflex. I could be dead before he actually saw me.

For the remainder of last night neither of us slept. 

When at last Blanjini's violin music drifted through our window, Erik's footsteps followed without hesitation. Finding myself alone, I had crawled out of bed and drifted to the window staring down into the small crowd growing around the empty carts. 

No matter how I tried to talk myself away from it, my alarm continued to grow. All of this I had seen before, whether or not Erik's alleged  _demon_ existed, there was no doubt what I had glimpsed in his exhausted eyes last night. What the nightmare-fit had confirmed. Once more Erik's sanity became a rope fraying against the keen knife edge of society's bias. And not a soul down there was aware of the devastation his temper could wrought. 

My hand gripped the windowsill where Erik had passed below over an hour ago now. What troubled me most were his words last night, how deeply mired he'd become so swiftly. This was Erik. A man who had stood in a pit in Persia and slaughtered countless victims at the whim of the royalty for mere spectacle. The deaths had hardly bothered him. In time it was the realization of how he'd been used that sickened Erik. He loathed humanity as a whole … and yet, last night? Was that … empathy?

I sighed, calling to mind the magic of the recent Saturday nights. The spell it had cast over him as he joined in the music, letting it carry him away. That had been my dream come true. Erik had found a semblance of peace, his talents permitting him a place of honor among these outcasts.

Outcasts. That was it. That had to be the key I had overlooked. Here, we were immigrants, no different than the others. All of them looked down upon … they were a mirror to his shared pain. 

Still, this delicate truce was threatened. If Erik failed to check his temper I feared what might happen. I doubted he would survive prison. With my limited ability to fluently speak a useful common tongue, I doubted I would survive if they took him.

I rubbed my eyes. Allah, I was tired. 

When I opened them a broad shouldered man in a bowler hat approached the building's front door accompanied by two more hefty men. My heart leapt into my throat. The landlord! 

I stared at the wall where Erik had concealed a money box by one of his clever contraptions. Of course the trigger was out of my arm reach, but not his. Had he paid the rent this month? Erik always paid the rent, walked it up to the landlord himself. Had he done it? Or had he forgotten in the midst of this crisis?

Paralyzed I held my breath. A series of loud thuds carried from below. Moments later several people, all from an apartment on the second floor, tumbled out into the street. I noted with dread that two of them had stains running down their chests and looked rather pale. That explained the odor I had noted when I passed that flight of stairs. 

The landlord stood blocking the building door and pointed as they cowered before him. I caught a few of his English words as he shouted. “No pay … no roof! Get out … vermin!” I had questioned Erik why he had taught me that last word. Now I knew. There was a great deal more, even as the family begged incoherently, but I did not have a sufficient vocabulary to understand the rushed words.

That effort only earned them a kick from one of the men. They scrambled away, one of them carried in a man's arms.

The landlord turned to his men. “Clean it.” And departed. 

My chest hurt from holding my breath as I released it. Erik must have remembered. Thank heavens for his meticulous memory. 

Erik … the vision of his shadow drifting along the wall last night in a restless plight bore into me. Mind made up, I grabbed my second-hand tweed suit coat and headed out the door. I had come to America to be Erik's conscience. To keep him from descending into madness. I would fail him if I did not keep a closer eye on him now when he most needed it. I had no idea where he was, but I assumed following the carts would reveal that. I had no idea what I could do when I found him, my knee already complained. All I had were his words of the futility of it all last night.

As I passed the third story landing, Chastity's door opened. Her hand pressed against the lace of her dress collar as she saw me. “Thank God, Nadir! All that noise, I was afraid to look outside to see who had been evicted.”

I felt the heat raise to my cheeks as I glanced away from her alluring eyes. “No … I … that is, we're safe. Erik makes the payment himself. That's not something he would forget.” I cleared my throat and glanced at her again. “I'm glad you're safe.”

She nodded, her eyes drifted to the stairwell. Noises carried from below, the bangs and crashes of items thrown through the open window onto the street below. 

“You have enough clean water, right?”

Chastity jerked her gaze back to me and nodded. “Yes. I have always boiled it. Tea, or as much of it as I can afford. Even in the summer heat I wouldn't risk otherwise.”

“Good.” I waved to her, turning to the stairs. 

“Nadir, where are you going? To the lines today?”

I shook my head. “No. I need to find Erik.”

Her hand tangled in her hair, a nervous gesture made more obvious as she bit her lip. “Are you sure? That place isn't for the faint of heart.”

I attempted to stand straighter, but the ache in my knee aborted any facade of strength. Who was I kidding? She saw right through me. “He shouldn't be doing this alone.”

She shook her head. “I heard details from one of the men who came yesterday. Came to banish the visions of that hell from the day before. A strong man reduced to sobbing like a child in the arms of a whore.”

I stiffened. “Don't call yourse—”

“What I am?” Her smile was soft. “Why lie? Do not fret about my feelings. But I do worry for yours.”

Standing as tall as I could, I declared, “I have no choice.”

Chastity cupped my chin in her soft palm, perfume tickled my nose. Flowers, like a fresh garden … my garden back home in Persia … “South and west. Go to Centre street near Franklin, though as you get close enough I understand you won't be able to miss it. Take care, Nadir. Don't let something happen to you. Either of you.”

I touched her hand. “ **That** is why I must go.” 

As I stepped out onto the Bowery I realized I had no idea where she was talking about. Certainly, I knew the cardinal directions. So south on the Bowery was no trouble. But aside from walking back and forth to the work lines each day, I hadn't explored this place a fraction the amount Erik had. 

Overhead the elevated train rumbled, shaking loose a rain of rust and shadowing me in a blast of sooty smoke. Inside loaded with passengers who likely had no idea what transpired down below. The air had a fouler scent to it these past days. Not that it hadn't always smelled a bit like an outhouse, but the heat had certainly intensified things.

I'd wandered a few blocks down the Bowery as a horse drawn cart clattered by loaded with bodies. None in coffins, a few wrapped in sheets or blankets, most only in their soiled garments. The man at the reins called out in Russian commands. I understood him.

Instantly I waved up at him. “Hey! Wait.” My Russian was a bit rusty, it had been terrible enough to begin with, but I hoped it would serve me well enough. 

The man tugged back on the reins and the cart groaned to a halt. He eyed me beneath a set of bushy-brows. “Do you have more dead? We're full. Wait for the next cart.”

“No!” I waved my hands. “I wish to go where they are going.”

He cocked his head. “You don't look ill.”

Gritting my teeth I scrambled as he took the reins back up, clearly not in the mood for a delay. I opened my mouth and almost said his name—before I remembered Erik's insistence that remain secret. Instead I held up a finger and pointed south. “Nightingale?”

The man flashed a confused grin. “Aha, Nightingale. Yes. He is this way. You want me to take you to him?”

I nodded, thrilled at my good fortune. A ride would spare my knee. 

He shifted over as I climbed up onto the broad seat. With a click of his tongue he set the bay colored draft horse in motion. We rumbled down the street. Every breeze wafted the nauseating odor from the cart's load. I could not picture a worse scent. Vomit, diarrhea, intensified by the heat.

At a cross street, he tugged on the rein with a barked command and the cart turned right onto Franklin. Well, at least he knew where he was going. I smiled.

And then, a wind from the west throttled it from me. I choked on a vile miasma, infinitely worse than the bodies behind us. Covering my nose with my arm I coughed, and fought the rising bile. The man eyed me sidelong with a pitying gaze. Every time I inhaled the putrid odor wrung more tears from my eyes. Manure, sun-baked vomit and diarrhea, mingled with rotting flesh to the point I tasted it.

The cart came to a halt in a line of others along a barren lot. The horse swished her tail sending the cloud of flies airborne. Set among livestock pens on the blocks around it, the lot held nothing but a pile of excrement mixed dirt off to one side and stack of bodies. A cobbled together crane leaned over a gaping pit roughly half the length of the lot. Men lifted the bodies off the carts and added them to the stack, shifting the gathering flies. One man lowered a corpse into the pit using the crane. After a minute or so, he hauled the empty rope back up and set to work tying on the next. 

The Russian jumped down from his cart and made his way to the edge of the pit. His eyes searched for a moment before he whistled sharply. “Nightingale!”

A familiar voice, tinged with frustration, answered from below. “What is it now, Kazimir?” Clearly this had not been the first interruption. 

He pointed toward me, “Come see.”

I climbed down off the cart and tried to gather the fortitude to approach. But a fresh gust of wind off the pile repulsed me, and I was forced to cover my mouth to subdue the urge.

The ladder sticking up from one side of the pit shuddered. Erik emerged, already as caked in filth as I had seen him last night. He looked every bit a beast of burden along with the other workmen. “This better be important. That God-damned stone still refuses to budge.” 

The man named Kazimir nodded my way. “He asked for you.”

Erik turned my way and the eyes behind his well-stained mask shot wide. “Nadir? What the devil are you doing here?”

Kazimir's booming laugh stole any chance I had at an immediate response. He clapped Erik across the shoulders, causing him to wince under the good-natured blow. “Ahh, so you know one another. Good.”

With a nod, Erik strode toward me. “I will take care of this.” As he closed the distance, he shifted to Persian for my ease. “You are as green as your eyes. What do you think you can possibly do here?”

Oh, this place was foul. I could scarcely breathe without my gut churning. But I forced it down. “I want to help.”

His shoulders sagged, he reached a hand toward my shoulder, but caught sight of his filthy fingers in time to withdraw the gesture. “Go home, Nadir. This is not a place for you.”

There was a twitch. A telltale tremor in his eyes. A slight jerk that screamed to me that Erik was currently not alone in his head. I folded my arms. “I live in the Bowery, too. I will not be turned away.”

He snarled and slashed the air with his hand. “I do not need this right now. Not with the delay caused by a veritable boulder in our way.” His temper was broiling.

I covered my nose and edged my way closer to the pit, far enough that I didn't feel I would fall in. Several men struggled with a large rock, wider than a man, sticking out of the digging path. Children passed buckets of dirt down a line and emptied them onto the stacked bodies below. This pit was huge. So much larger than my imagination. No wonder he'd been so exhausted.

“Well? What do you think you can do? Run the crane? You detest heights. Dig? That knee of yours would not last an hour. And at the end of the day it would be so painful I would have to carry you up the ladder. There is not a single thing I can do with you!”

I wilted under his frustrated words.

“Go home.” He barely got that out before his eyes shot over my head, narrowing. “Son of a—how many times do I have to … ” Storming toward one of the carts, Erik screamed at the man and thrust his pointer finger in a harsh gesture to the end of the line. The man's cart was facing the wrong way, blocking the flow.

As swift as I could, I closed the distance and touched Erik's bare forearm. “Let me handle this. You have enough to worry about.” 

“You?” He almost snorted a laugh … but in a series of gestures I directed the rogue cart on a path that relieved the congestion. Erik held up his hands in concession. “All right. You can stay. Direct the carts. See that they line up and unload properly. New arrivals on this end—”

“Nightingale.” I fixed him with a calm stare. “I have it. Go back to where you are needed.”

His hands fell at his sides. “Come evening you may regret this.”

“That is my concern. Not yours.” Another cart rolled up, trying to cheat the ordered line. I moved up to intercept. Good, from here I could keep an eye on Erik's inner turbulence. All I had to do was keep my urge to vomit at bay.

_**~Erik~** _

This belligerent chunk of useless stone would not defeat me! The last two hours had largely been wasted finding the edges of this massive disruption. When Conall's shovel first struck it we all assumed it to be something one man could move, two at most. We had already encountered a few rough field type stones and tossed them aside. But his shovel soon was joined by Salvatore's. And then my own. Five of us eventually worked feverishly clearing the dirt, cutting into the slope deeper and deeper. Until at last our obstacle grew to a bolder larger than three men put together. 

I stood beside the thing, huffing each breath from the frantic digging to unearth it. My free hand twisted at my side. Shit, shit, shit! There were so many ways I knew to deal with it—if only I had the proper equipment. At the build sites I'd moved larger slabs of marble with the use of levers, rolling logs, even cranes. But the one overhead built from the scavenged beams would stand no chance against this behemoth. If I had my chisels and mallet I could break the damn thing into pieces. But it would take me far too long to fetch them from up north. Besides, I doubted I had the energy to make it home and back again.

_What's wrong? Are you feeling sleepy? Should I sing you a lullaby?_

I leaned against the stone and grimaced at the damn voice. My weariness was entirely _his_ fault. As usual _he_ was making it difficult to think at a time when I needed my wits.

Around me the men offered ideas to one another, ones I hardly even heard over the ceaseless distraction of the internal chatter.

“What do you think?” Salvatore asked me.

I sat down on the rock and bowed my head. “Let me think for a moment.” We needed more leverage. Pulling the rock from the pit turned from a simple task to a monumental one. Maybe we didn't need to remove it... just move it?

_To where, Erik? Will you just magically levitate it like you did the horse cart in Russia? Won't that be amazing without a tree in sight._

I surged up and threw my shovel with all my might across the pit. Luckily the blind throw had been into a corner unoccupied by the children. Still, all eyes drifted from the vibrating shovel stuck spade deep into the dirt above the corpses to trace a line back to me. I couldn't help it as I huffed air like a bull about charge. Fear lined their eyes as they backed away, giving me a wider berth.

Horse … the wheels turned far slower, mired by my temper. Horse. Doesn't have to leave the pit. Gradually my arm lifted and I pointed at the shovel. “We are going to move it.”

“Where?” Salvatore scratched his head.

“There, over the top of what had begun the pit.” I mounted the ladder, climbing it to a chorus of questions. All of them I ignored, mainly because I was still working out the details. “Kazimir! Where is Kazimir?”

Nadir appeared far closer to the pit than he should have been, concern in his searching gaze. I saw his question and I held up a staying hand. “Nadir—Kazimir, the man who brought you here, where is he?”

It was at that moment I heard the clomp of his bay's hooves. As I ran for his cart, I shouted over my shoulder, “Take the rope from the crane!” 

The man at that task eyed me, having just finished securing the next load. 

“Now!” I did not wait to see if he complied. He would greatly regret it had he not. 

Weaving through the carts I waved the burly Russian down. “Stop, Kazimir. I need to borrow Trud! And the other two cart horses.”

He glanced at his horse. “For what purpose?”

“It will take too long to fully explain.” Especially considering I had half a plan. “To shift the rock.”

“How are you going to get the horses into the pit?” At his words Trud whinnied and tossed her head as if laughing at a joke.

_She's right, Erik. Even she thinks you are crazy._

I shook my head. “No, the horses aren't going into the pit. Just the rock.”

“The rock is in the pit.”

Taking a deep breath I held my hands up. “I know. We are not going to remove it, the damn thing is too big. That is why I need the horses.”

Kazimir rubbed the back of his neck. “Be careful with her.” He hopped down and pulled the hitch pin from the cart, then slid the reins from the guides. Trud followed us to the edge of the pit where we had broken ground. Kazimir sent word through a runner to the other two horsed carts. 

Grabbing the rope, now free from the crane, I handed one end to Kazimir. “Hitch them up.”

“All right, if you say so.” He raised an eyebrow. “Where you going?”

Holding the other end of the rope, I dashed for the ladder at the side of the pit without answering. Once at the bottom I ran the length of rope around the rock, crisscrossing it and creating a cradle. A task that took far too long for me to accomplish. 

Of course,  _he_ wasn't helping.  _Oh sure, when the rope slips, more will die. Excellent plan._

I stiffened. My eyes tracing the path of the rope no less than three times. It was secure. By that time, Kazimir waved from above. “Got 'em. Ready to haul.”

“Children, out.” 

Daniel chased them up the ladder. 

I pointed to a few of the men, the rest I signaled up as well. When all was clear, we stood along the sides and I called up to him. “Go.”

The rope snapped taut as he sweet talked Trud up to pulling. Bit by bit the massive stone began to shift, dragged forward by the steady force of three cart horses. As it ground forward, a wedge of dirt pushed before it toward the stacked bodies. Not that we could do much, but the men and I came to the sides and guided it forward, nudging the block straight and up the make-shifted dirt ramp as the rope hauled it up and over the burials. 

I cringed at the disrespect as it packed in the dirt over them. Yet it occurred to me, the stone would serve to protect them. We grunted and groaned under the strain as the back edge cleared. 

“Kazimir, stop!”

It took a moment to halt the beasts. The rope slackened and I leaned against the stone, letting my head fall back. We'd done it. The way was now clear to keep digging. Cheers erupted. 

Recovering my senses I un-tethered the rock's make-shifted cradle and climbed the ladder. At the other end of the rope, Kazimir was unhitching the horses. I handed off the rope to the man at the crane and wandered over, patting Trud's broad shoulder in thanks. She nuzzled my neck, nipping at the leather tie in my hair. “Easy, I need that.”

Kazimir shook his head. “Careful, she might bite you.”

“She would not do that, will you now, Trud?”

Nodding her head she nickered. 

“Well, I thank you for your muscle, friend.” My fingers parted her forelock, tracing the white stripe of her muzzle.

An angry shout caught my attention. Not one, but it was echoed a moment by another. Looking over my shoulder a pair of men strode toward us, each bore a heavy metal pole in their hands.

“Here comes trouble.” Kazimir narrowed his eyes.

One of them grabbed Conall by the arm and screamed at him. “You know your place, get back to the line now.”

The line … the factory line! These must be foreman. Red-faced, and practically foaming at the mouth they gripped their missing workers, throwing them to the ground. 

“Every one a' ya is to report now!”

“But … but sir!” Conall held out his hands. “We have to—”

“God-damned mick!” The foreman drew his stick high.

I threw myself toward them, closing the distance. At the same time my hand whipped out the concealed blade.

CLANG!

Metal pole struck blade. I glared at the foreman.

_This is going to be good. Come on now, Erik. Make an example of him!_

The man's eyes flicked to the blade. He snarled, pushing his pole with more force. Force that amounted to a stalemate. “What the 'ell you want, freak? You ain't one a ours.”

_Freak! You hear that?_

That damn word felt like a slap across my face. The urge to slice out his tongue and feed it to him threatened to overwhelm me. I narrowed my eyes, my right hand grabbed his wrist. Shock bloomed in his eyes, but pride overshadowed. A moment later he mastered himself. A man accustomed to power. The other foreman came closer. I eyed him until he reconsidered.

“Are you blind or just lack-wits? Can you not see what is going on here?” I hissed.

The foreman locked in my grip spat at my feet. “Don' matter. They gots jobs to do. They either report for duty, or else?”

“Or else what?”

He grinned. The other foreman swung his pipe with a laugh. “Or else they never walk again.”

My hand tightened expelling a pained yelp. The first foreman's pipe fell to the ground with a clang. He struggled to free his fingers. “Lemme go!”

I lifted his arm tight over his head, just shy of lifting him off his feet in my surge of anger.  _Tear his arm off, you know you can do it. Make him suffer._

He wailed. So much for power. I forced his face closer to my mask and snarled, “Have some decency.” Kicking him in the gut I sent him sprawling into the pile of excrement laden soil. He scrambled backward, colliding with the other foreman. Their eyes widened. Rising to my full height, I pointed with the blade. 

All their bravado vanished and they fled, tripping over each other in their haste.

_Pity. I wanted to see you lay waste to them. I mean, you already have a place for their disposal._

One swift motion and the blade vanished from my hand. Around me, the crew stared, their eyes followed as I dropped back down the ladder, picked up my shovel and resumed digging. No, there were enough dead already.

Soon, progress continued as it should have. In well timed teams, we shifted the dirt through the children's buckets. More bodies came down and laid to rest one at a time.

Lost in the monotony of the work, at one point I glanced down to find my bucket full. I had another shovelful but nowhere to put it. Daniel had not taken it from me.

When I looked over my shoulder he stood, stock-still. His eyes trembling. I followed his line of sight to the body that had just been laid to rest. Small. Gaunt with wrinkled blue skin and half closed eyes. I knew him. And so did Daniel. How had I failed to even notice he hadn't been among the children this morning.

“Franci.” My voice sounded so hollow in the pit.

Daniel bowed his head, shaking so violently his teeth chattered. I could see the glimmer in the corner of his eyes. The other children clung to one another, tears running freely down their cheeks.

The boy was already as caked in filth as I, I did not hesitate to lay a hand on his narrow shoulder.

He stiffened and met my gaze. Swallowing before he spoke. “Real men don't cry.”

I closed my eyes and squeezed his shoulder. “Yes … they do, Daniel.”

As if he'd needed permission to embrace his sorrow, his hands gripped my shirt and he pulled into me, sobbing. I rubbed his back, but it hardly felt like enough to quell this wretched reality. So young to have such a brutal lesson. I only hoped he bore reality better than I had.


	12. Chapter 12

_ **Chapter 12** _

_**~Nadir~** _

The water from Erik's filthy shirt ran in muddy trickles back into the wash tub as I wrung it out by candlelight. That water no cleaner than what dripped down Erik's bare shoulders as he leaned over the smaller bowl. He faced away from me in some semblance of privacy. Because he had been rather taciturn on the walk back north, I suspected he wanted some time to himself after the rather difficult day. Periodic disturbances halted the process of the burials. The hardest was seeing one of the men dragged up the ladder by the others, screaming and trying to claw his way toward the pit. The men were forced to hold him back. By the repetition, it sounded like a name on his lips. I would not say it aloud, but Erik had been right. In my opinion the day could not have ended swiftly enough. But Erik refused to climb the ladder until the light in the sky faded.

Now home, I praised myself for having set aside a bucket of undistilled rain for providing us with another night to wash by without wasting the water in the barrel.

The wordless silence stretched uncomfortably. Only the intermittent splash of the essential washing echoed. Wringing the shirt's rough fabric out for the countless time, I began to glimpse the first sign of the pale green color. “I think you brought most of the field home with you.”

Erik's halfhearted grunt was his only reply. He continued to free his skin from the evidence of the day's toil. After bearing witness I completely understood why he had stank so thoroughly the day before. They were clearly digging in what had once been a filled-in swamp. The bottom of the pit filled seemed to be filled with a thicker mud.

It seemed to take several candle-marks before Erik dropped the rag to shake out his drenched hair. I pointed to his shirt and pants flung over a line, shifting in the breeze from the window. “Yesterday's wash should be dry.”

He wasn't so lost as to not hear me. Reaching up, he snatched the clothing from the line and dragged it over his long limbs. His movements were a bit stiff, his eyes preoccupied, twitching. I suspected that, like last night, we were not alone in the apartment.

Scrubbing the soap against the sodden shirt, I let the pants soak longer as I muttered, “That boy you were with earlier, before lunch arrived … ”

“Daniel.” He eased down into the desk chair, his hands supporting his temples.

“Was that his name?” I tried to make a bit of small talk, engage him in some form of conversation.

Instead, Erik nodded.

This wasn't working. I needed something he would have to explain. “He seemed upset.”

“I should imagine so.” Erik's flat tone didn't alter in pitch. “He turned around to find his best friend's corpse waiting for him to pass the burial bucket.”

“Oh … ” My hand paused for a moment, muddy bubbles popping on the water surface. “The poor child. I suspect his parents will find him inconsolable.”

“Impossible.” Erik folded his arms and rested his chin on them. “He does not have any.”

“He doesn't?” I raised an eyebrow. “Where does he live?”

“Daniel is a street urchin.” Erik's eyes narrowed and twitched, his fingers knuckled white. This was not mere suppressed emotion. I knew now, my conversation with him was secondary.

I watched him more closely. “The poor child, I don't suppose—”

He hissed out. “Will. You. Shut. Up!”

Instantly I returned to the washing. “My apologies.”

Burying his head in a hand, he muttered, “Not you, Nadir.”

With a sigh, I dropped the shirt in the tub and approached the chair. “I knew something was wrong. Come now, look me in the eyes. Don't you squirm away. I mean it, let me see.”

Unfolding his arms, Erik sat up and turned my way. As last night, he wasn't wearing the mask that sorely wanted cleaning, my next task. Without it, the candlelight caught his twitching eyes all the more. An erratic tick like a malfunctioning clock.

I shook my head. “What is it saying?”

Erik's hand became a fist as he scowled at me. “I knew it, you did not come to help. You came down there to spy on me!”

I grabbed his wrist, hard. He trembled with fury. “Stop acting like a child with a secret. You're hearing that voice again. I know what I'm seeing. It drove you to distraction today. That's why you lost your temper and threw the shovel.”

“You petulant ass!” He rolled his head back with a groan. “Nobody asked you! Will you leave me alone!”

I narrowed an eye, gripping his wrist tighter. “That better not have been to me.”

He raised his other hand and rubbed his eyes. “You are the one who said you saw it. So why the hell do you second guess that now?” He laid the arm on the desk and flopped his chin down. “I suppose it is to be another restless night. Another test to see how long I can resemble some form of functioning without sleep. This will prove a merry little chase.”

“This is nothing to joke about.”

“I was not striving for humor. Simply stating _his_ point of view. You asked me what the pest was saying. Now you are privy to it.”

“Erik, this demon isn't real.” I released his wrist and crossed my arms.

For a moment his eyes rolled to the side as if someone were whispering into his ear. “Ah, well,  _he_ begs to differ. And adds that when it comes right down to it, no one can even prove their own existence.”

“I … what?”

Erik heaved a sigh, his arm laying limp on the desk. His hair, loose from the leather tie, clung in long wet strands to his scalp. He looked like a drowned rat washed up on a shore. But at least he was cleaner. “For pity's sake, do not get  _him_ started.”

I dropped my head into a hand. “Enough about … **that** then. Erik, what worried me more than anything was the confrontation with the foremen. Did you even stop to consider what the consequences could be for baring that damned blade in public?”

He shut his eyes for a long moment, tensing repeatedly before they opened. “Did you ponder what would have happened if they had forced the men back to work? How many doors they would have knocked on dragging family members from tending the ill?”

“Hah, did you? Be honest, Erik!”

A faint amused grin flickered for a moment. “Eh, it was in the back of my mind at some point.”

“You threatened them for doing their job, as distasteful as that was. What if they had fetched the police? They would have had every right to.” I held up a finger to him. “I will tell you I considered that potential. Do you have any idea what the prisons are like here?” I honestly did not. However that thought vanished replaced by another. Why was this easing some of his visible tension? What was going on inside that mind of his?

“Yes.” His fingers spider-crawled across the desk toward the wooden box. “In fact I have taken the pains to gaze inside the barred windows of one that goes by the moniker _the Tombs_. Would you like a detailed description of what I found? Or would you like to glimpse it yourself? You will not have to go far. It is across Franklin street from the pit we are digging.”

“Did you know about that when you broke ground for the burial pit?” My ears burned, waiting for his answer.

“The matter did come up, but it was immediately dismissed.”

“Allah grant me patience. You mean to tell me we are breaking the law across the street from a prison?”

He nodded. “But you worry for naught. The place is so foul the police hardly enter there longer than their tasks require. Only the prisoners remain locked inside. The ground water seeps through the faulty foundation, so I suspect that the cholera already took hold in there. Things are grim enough out here. Imagine being unable to leave a cell with a constant stand of fetid water.”

“Enough!” Visions of the horrific conditions of the cells in Mazandaran put a tremble in my voice. Most prisoners died of neglect there. Clearly, not something isolated to the old world if Erik was to be believed. No, I would not wander over and look tomorrow. “What has come over you? The change in the last few moments … ”

He laughed. “Your questions bored  _him_ . I assure you,  _he_ had a few remarks before  _he_ gave up completely at your pathetic sense of morality, something I have become quite acquainted with. That is precisely why I warmed to your conversation.”

“Bored? That doesn't sound very demon like.”

Erik did not reply as he pried open the box and packed a small pinch of opium into his pipe, lighting it from the candle. I watched as he inhaled the sweet smoke and held it for a slow count before letting it go. The remaining tension in his frame flowed with it.

“If you continue to smoke it at this rate … ”

He eyed me. “Take more concern if I do not. You are the one fretting about the voice in my head. Either let me silence  _him_ for at least tonight, or stop going on about it.” Leaning back, he shut his eyes in a final gesture. I would get no more from him.

With a sigh, I returned to washing his soiled clothing as the first patter of rain struck the window. It was a good thing I had hung the bucket back on the hook where it could full up for washing tomorrow. All I could hope for was that the opium's balm could bank the madness enough to let us rest tonight. Please Allah, let it be so.

* * *

_**~Erik~** _

The third star had long since appeared. The day, which began to the patter of a gentle rain, cleared to a steamy star cast evening. The peacefulness seemed to mock us in the waning moonlight. Though I had worked in the pit for most of the daylight, in the end it felt like any other day since this befell the Bowery … a breakneck race where we stood still no matter how hard we worked. After scrubbing my skin raw and putting on cleaner clothing, I had grabbed my beloved violin and wandered down to the street with Nadir in my shadow.

Why were we even bothering? In the gathering darkness, Bowery residents huddled beneath the flicker of the streetlamps. Though many of the musicians, those who were still alive and well enough to come out, brought their instruments, there was no music save from the occasional halfhearted plucking of a few strings. I could scarcely bring myself to play, though my violin sat across my lap, tuned and ready as I perched on the iron crossbeam, Blanjini sat in his usual place just off to my right. His eyes were not the only ones sightlessly staring off this night. No one seemed to know where to look. Even the children huddled in solemn knots. I spied a rare sight of Daniel clinging to a lamppost. It had surprised me to see him this morning dutifully hauling dirt. He'd never said a word.

Those of us gathered in the ritual knew the bitter truth. We had survived another week in this fetid slum, but it was no cause for celebration tonight. Our numbers were less than usual in this near silent mass. Conversations started up only to die off within a response or two. I could not be certain if the conclusion we had reached during lunch earlier today had been wise. But among the elders no one seemed to know what to do with the gathering. So it was decided to let those who would come … come.

My one blessing this day—the voice in my head spouted out less frequently. For once, the opium had eased that into partial submission. My thoughts were almost exclusively my own … passive as _he_ would say.

Scilla Moretti struck her cane on the ground, breaking a long silence. Seated beside her, Cornelio's head jerked up at the sound, breaking his mourning of the loss of three of his children. He was forced to scrub the tears from his eyes as his youngest, seated in his lap, reached up to touch his face. “Papa?”

She lifted her chin. “Four-hundred-fifty-nine.” Eyes closed, heads bowed, figures that had once come in the arms of others shivered—alone. Word had traveled of the matron's self assigned task … every body counted that been interred in the mass grave since we broke ground earlier in the week.

The number did not surprise me, but somehow hearing it left a pit in my stomach.

Annushka reached out to where he husband should have been, only two of her three children clung to her skirt now. “How many more will we lose to this?”

Her plea went out unanswered. I could not bear to lend voice to my abysmal calculation. One-tenth of the population—at the least. In less than a full week, we were already halfway to that mark. The latter part of my assumption seemed more likely. Fate would not smile upon us. On the contrary, it condemned us to watch and wait our turn. A faint glimmer of hope emerged from a handful who had fallen ill but now stood among us. But that was insufficient to last.

Over the course of the week, streets filled with swarms of flies, the sound of constant buzzing drowned out only by the elevated train. Constant pests, they spared nothing, circling inside the tenements' open windows and drifting back to harass the cart horses. Even after dusk they remained a thick black cloud. At least toward the north end of the Bowery, not too far from our apartment, they were not nearly as bad as around the pit.

Blanjini lifted his hand and a dozen of the pests drifted up into the air. He sighed, shut his eyes and muttered a quote, “ _And the Lord did so; and there came a grievous swarm of flies into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants' houses, and into all the land of Egypt: the land was corrupted by reason of the swarm of flies._ ”

Not far from us, Zemel leaned his head back and waved a hand in the air. “Certainly this land is corrupted. But we are hardly Pharaoh to have called down these wretched plagues. What have we done to deserve this?”

Shanya pulled her shawl closer and shook her head. “I have heard of these streets, called by some a den of sin because of the pubs, the theatres, and the gambling. Perhaps we have been abandoned.”

Zemel fixed her with an iron glare. “The good Lord does not abandon.”

I held my violin tighter to my chest, turning away from his declaration of faith. Faith … just another lash across my back.

“Let us not forget the promise.”

“For such as the blessed of Him shall inherit the earth;” the phrase had escaped me, I had not even realized I had spoken until their eyes turned to me for the latter phrase, so rarely mentioned, “and they that be cursed of Him shall be cut off.” God, I knew that declaration well for all the times my mother slapped the knuckles of my left hand to knock the quill from them until they bled. Every time I picked it up with my _sinister_ hand, she stood over my shoulder and forced me to write those lines two dozen times with my clumsy right. The script, never tidy enough for her.

For too long, the eyes of those who understood stared. A murmuring of translations carried through and more eyes joined in the awkward intensity.

Zemer pointed from me to himself. I caught his meaning.

“No.” I bowed my head. “Catholic.”

That word apparently sounded similar enough that many recognized the significance. Suddenly, Scilla offered me a wide smile and clutched the cross on her neck.

I hung my head and shook it. “You do not understand, I was only raised Catholic.”

Allegra smiled at me, having only half caught the words. “That explains how he knew the verse. I should have known such a good man would be a Catholic.”

It shamed me. How very far from the truth her words lay. I was neither a good man, nor was I a devout Catholic. At one time I had longed to be. Oh how I longed. I closed my eyes and remembered the suffocating urge to belong. “On Sunday the glorious organ used to shake the stained-glass windows. Beautiful music, like a balm to the soul, embraced me and I felt the power, moved by the majesty. An all-embracing force that could shift a veritable mountain! For the whole of the Mass I used to sit at my bedroom window and allow the organ to carry me to the heavens.”

Scilla lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you mean from the pew.”

Once more my mouth had spoken my thoughts aloud. My eyes shifted to the ground, I shook my head. “No … my mother … she …” I choked on her long ago words, “there was no place in that sacred hall … for me.”

Scilla snapped her fingers. “Blasphemy. The Lord loves and embraces all of His creations.”

My hand threatened to drift toward my mask. Surely they would have guessed it by now. But admitting it threatened to close off my throat. “Not His flawed ones. Those are forgotten, banished. Denied His grace. He turned away from me before I can even remember.”

Allegra closed the distance. Her fingers touched my hand wrapped around the neck of my Stradivarius. “He has not, Nightingale. You're extraordinarily gifted with music.”

I stroked the fine strings, listening to the responding hum. “Even Lucifer had his talents.” Slowly, I drew the violin up to my chin and played a slow folk tune. Blanjini lifted his violin and joined. Just we two lent their voices into the evening air as the others closed their eyes, drifting on the melody's tide.

In the midst of this living hell, I knew deep in my heart no one watched down on us. No one cared for our souls. Yet somehow, faith flickered in their eyes. A faith that had long ago had seen me battered on the rocks, left for dead.


	13. Chapter 13

_ **Chapter 13** _

_**~Erik~** _

Well, I hadn't precisely taken my time building the crane. As with all things cobbled together using inferior materials, eventually they break. It surprised me it had lasted halfway through Monday before it failed. That afforded me a lunch break to ponder possible fixes with what I had on hand. Which wasn't much. A few spare boards and a length of rope. Somehow that would have to work as I didn't have another long beam. At least the current one only cracked and hadn't fallen into the pit.

After a rather necessary couple mugs of cold ale and a bowl of some type of chowder I hardly tasted in my haste, I clambered on the crane. Perched on the undamaged end, I had the semblance of a plan. While the rest finished their lunch, Salvatore and Conall joined me. They each held a board in place overlapping the crack threatening to end the use of the main beam. I wrapped the rope tightly, using the backside of my blade to butt it up against itself. Every other pass I leaned back, taking all the slack. If this was to hold, it had to be snug.

Reaching the end, Kazimir gazed up. “Nice work. Used to fix masts in a pinch like that. Want me to tie it off?”

I nodded and held the tension on the rope. It was a sensible solution, to keep it taut required more than one set of skilled hands. Salvatore and Conall dropped back out of the way as Kazimir shimmied up, far nimbler than a man of his girth had any right to be. With swift fingers he wove a thick plait of a knot and leaned back, brushing his hands off. “That should do it.”

I offered my hand, which I expected him to decline, but he took it in a solid shake as I called out, “We have a crane again. Be careful, I am not sure how well that will hold.”

He lifted a shoulder. “God willing it won't have to much longer.”

I gazed down into the ever expanding pit reaching toward the end of the block. “You have a gift for optimism, one I dearly wished I shared.”

We were about to climb down when we spied Oisin racing down Center street, a paper waving in his hand as he called out, “There's news about us! News!”

Work hadn't really restarted yet, as I hadn't wanted to risk anyone beneath the crane while it was unstable. Kazimir and I climbed down and joined the crowd around the excited Irishman. He was giving it a good try, pointing at an article in the newspaper. “See, it says Bow-er-y here. So this has to be news, right? Sorry, my English isn't so good.”

Probably an advertisement, or the announcement someone who lived here had been arrested and was going to trial. I held out a hand, not even wanting to know how he had managed to procure the paper. I doubted he had paid for today's edition. “Let us see what they have to say.” I cleared my throat and started to read aloud, most of them knew a smattering of English.

“'Atherton Wellspring reports that a letter of a strange nature arrived at the offices of the city council last week. The contents detailed a horrific outbreak of cholera in the vicinity of the Bowery linked to the sinkhole that opened up on Mott street earlier this month. Recent rains, the letter went on to clarify, have spread the disease as the water table rose and allowed the spill over into the well water. Animals first presented infections, in the death of a up-town cart horse, the corpse of which was left in the Bowery, as well as two street dogs known to have contacted its rotting corpse. Soon afterward the immigrants grew ill, many dying in rapid succession. The Bowery calls out for assistance in the aid of clean water due to the wells being contaminated, and resources for better handling their dead. Both stated as essential to stop the spread.

“Wellspring considers the letter an amusing prank. He responds, 'First of all, the penmanship was rather ornate, suggesting an educated man. Second, the manner of language selected further reflected higher education. This was not some mick fresh off the boat. The question left for debate was who would have such a sense of humor to think this would pass even the scantest of readings from our table? Or perhaps whose wife put him up to such a joke, given the rather womanish tone of compassion. For clearly what highborn man spends more than a passage in their own carriage or on the elevated train through the Bowery? Hardly time to assess such a, pardon the laugh, _dreadful_ situation. If such on outbreak were occurring in that disreputable ward, it should come as no surprise. The immorality of the lazy vermin cast to our shores in search of handouts from the hardworking citizens of this city is well known. The filthy bums populating those tenements call upon its own scourges. One need only pass down a block or two to witness the saturation of drunken debauchery commonplace among the rats of this city. If this unlikely event were true, it would simply be God's hand stripping our great city of the unworthy. Let's be honest, why would we want to stop what would actually be a blessing. Nothing of any worth ever comes out of the Bowery.'”

My hand shook with fury. The fingers clamping so tight the paper wrinkled. What a pathetic shortsighted opinion. Lazy? Men and women, on any normal day, walked in droves to the factories working ten to twelve hour shifts while their children were left to raise themselves. For their labors they could not even afford a single room without sharing it with another family. Those who were not steadily employed frequented the day work lines, as Nadir did, trying each day to be selected for some menial task that would earn their daily bread. The only thing that spared Nadir and I, and afforded us the private apartment, was the rather small dwindling fortune I had managed to bring from Paris. Not that it mattered, the well-to-do clearly did not see value in _my_ money, resulting in our relegation to the tenements. Drunken debauchery? Bowery residents were not drunk, alcohol was about the only thing fit to consume in this slum thanks to the municipal water supply falling short of supplying anything but the wealthiest wards. Boiling was the most accessible way to render the water safe. Coal was expensive. Burning animal excrement was readily available on the streets itself, but the fumes made an already odoriferous situation worse. Some refused that in the heat of the summer. As for the concentration of brothels, one need only sit on a street corner and count the number of finely attired _gentlemen_ who sought that particular service on a regular basis—many sporting wedding bands. That didn't even figure into how often single women were often refused gainful employment, leaving them only one option … as I had learned from Chastity's plight. Immoral behavior indeed.

Translations carried throughout the gathered men, their faces awash in shock. “But …,” Oisin stuttered, “the letter sent to them clearly spoke true. How they can say this isn't happening? Who wrote the letter?”

I swatted at a swarm of flies and snapped, “I did! Daniel ran it to city hall for me.”

At his name, the boy glanced up at me and tugged his cap. “Told you I'd delivered it.”

“I know.” I held out a hand. It took everything within me to keep my limbs from shaking. I wanted to storm right into city hall and snap every one of their _highborn_ necks! “I trusted you and you did well. This failure is not yours. Nor mine. I had assumed they would respect something tailored to their inflated stature. A humble plea in gilded words. Unfortunately, that tactic failed to deliver our salvation. I had hardly asked for much. Daily barrels of clean water from the Croton Reserve and help in burying the dead. All of this to stop what is happening here and prevent the cholera from spreading outside our ward.”

“Don't they see?” Conall's wide eyes glanced at the others. “This won't stay here. It didn't back home. It won't here.”

“Nor does it particularly care who it infects.” I met his gaze. “If it reaches uptown the only difference will be the conditions. They have less to fear. Many of their homes are equipped with running water. Their foundations are not built on fetid swampland.”

Conall nodded, pounding a fist to his chest. “They are better fed! Servants to make their meals for them if they fall ill, to raise the children if they pass on. They can miss work and no one tries to drag them back to a wretched factory line! After the days I've missed I doubt I have a job anymore, but if I leave here who will bury the dead?”

By now his voice wasn't the only one, but the remarks echoed his. Our lives were eroding and this article dubbed the plea for help a puriel prank. I glared at the article. Beneath my thumb my eyes caught another reference to the city council. I held my breath. There was another chance.

“Wait!” At my shout silence descended. “The city council is holding a meeting this afternoon. There is a chance I can sway them, convince them this is real.”

Salvatore shook his head. “Nightingale, you walk in their looking like that and they'll throw your ass in prison for public indecency.”

As had been the case I was caked with muck from the pit, only my hands were somewhat clean from the washing before our meal. Though city hall was to the south a short jaunt, I could not go directly there. I needed to get up north to my apartment near Bleeker, clean myself up, and then race all the way back south to Park row. I could not accomplish that in the timely manner without a horse.

I spun to Kazimir. “I need to borrow Trud.”

He took a step back, eyebrows raised. “I think that mask of yours is on too tight. What are you going to do with her?”

“I intend to crash a meeting and I need her speed to do it.” I did not miss Nadir's alarmed expression. He hastened through the crowd.

“You want to ride her? Ha!” Kazimir choked on a laugh. “She's a draft horse, don't have a saddle.”

I thrust the rolled paper at his chest. “I can still ride her. Please, Kazimir! I will not have time without her help. She can make it up and back before the end of the meeting.”

He heaved a sigh. “Hope she doesn't throw you. Alright.” It took him but a few minutes to unhitch her and knot back the reins into something usable.

Her harness still on her broad back, Trud eyed me as I came to her side and ran a hand down her muzzle. Her soft eyes met mine.

Hooking my foot in the harness, I climbed up and onto her back. Kazimir raised a brow in amazement. “I admit it, you know your horses, Nightingale. She's never had a rider.”

I patted her shoulder. “Ahh, she is a good girl, she told me she would carry me.” I ignored his startled snort. At my side, Nadir frantically reached for a hold. “I take it you are insisting on accompanying me?”

“Don't you even consider it otherwise!”

“Fine, get up here.” Repeatedly he scrambled to no avail. I reached down and grabbed his shirt collar, combined with my lifting and his climbing up the harness, he ended up behind me, puffing. Well, it was true mounting a draft horse was no easy task. “Hold on.” I urged Trud forward with a soft heel and let her have the reins. She seized the invitation and surged forward, heavy shod hooves striking sparks on the cobblestones as she flew free of the cart up the Bowery in record time.

I left her hitched out front of the building and dashed up the stairs. These was little time to spare. I reached for the stack of clothing I normally dared not wear, the dress suits that had followed me here.

Nadir shrieked from the doorway, “What are you doing? Wash first!”

I dropped my hand away and growled, not wanting to concede he was right. Stripping off the filthy work clothes I discarded them on the floor and poured the unfiltered water into the washing bowl. Faster than the previous days, I scrubbed myself, cursing the persistence of the foul earth clinging to me. As I tugged the old dress suit on I wished it didn't have soot stains and threadbare seams. The vest also failed to fit snug on my frame. Shit, times truly had been harder than I had been willing to admit.

Fortunately I had more than one mask, Nadir had wisely fetched a cleaner one, this one of silk mache. Slipping it on, I felt a bit more like my old influential self. Save for one detail. I reached out for my best black cloak and swung it on. Oh yes. Threadbare or not, this was who I really was.

Nadir's hand tugged on my arm. “Erik, this is our one chance. You have to be reasonable and diplomatic. The last tactic that will work is raging in there like a bull. You have to promise me you won't resort to your old games.”

I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Games? This is not a time for games, dear Daroga. I assure you I am well aware of that.” I descended the stairs. His footsteps followed.

“Yes, yes, but given the past … I worry about how you might use some of your … particular talents.”

I rolled my eyes. “Witnesses.”

“That never stopped you before.”

“If you are going to be nothing but a nattering goose,” reaching Trud I mounted her with the use of the harness, she shifted beneath me impatiently, “stay behind.”

He folded his arms and scowled. “You alone in a room with some of the most influential men in the city? Not on your life! Now, help me up.”

I smirked. “I should just leave you here.” But I'd never hear the end of it if I did. I reached down and grasped his wrist. In an awkward scrambling he made it up, sitting behind me on Trud's broad back.

He whispered in my ear, “Erik, can you go a little slower please? I nearly fell off.”

I laughed, sending the signal. The bay mare beneath me reared up and triggered a panicked scream as Nadir clawed to stay on. She came down with a mighty stomp and raced down the Bowery throwing her maned head to the sky. Luckily the foot traffic was lighter, as it seemed Trud did not care who was in front of her, she remained dead center in the street. If she had collided with anyone, the draft horse at full gallop would surely kill them.

When we reached the southern bend I spied men running to the street corner. Eyes widened, fingers pointed as Trud thundered past them proceeded by my calls to make way. I could only imagine what they saw. A man, on a horse that should never be ridden; a man they had seen only dressed in second-hand garments before now dressed in far richer attire. Yes, it had seen better days, but it betrayed a different time in my past, one I must draw on if I was to save them.

_Why are you trying so hard?_

“I do not need your distraction now, demon. Be gone. I have made up my mind.”

_But why?_

“Because,” I leaned forward urging Trud's fleet hooves, “I am one of them.”

_He_ laughed.  _Fool, you are nothing like those innocent peasants. This charade proves it. But try if you will. I'll gladly savor grinding the blade into your back once the city council delivers it to you. Or perhaps they will be so kind as to hasten your delivery back to your master. Come, dog!_

I gritted my teeth. “I-have-no-master!”

_Denial does not flatter you, Erik. One day you will meet your reckoning._

“My will is my own.” Trud's hooves clattered to a halt at the steps of the city hall.


	14. Chapter 14

_ **Chapter 14** _

_**~Erik~** _

As always in the presence of this building, the architecture commanded my attention. I had passed here numerous times scouting clients to build for. It had a stately appearance built in a remarkably familiar style. As it should be to me—tasteful French Renaissance in brownstone rather than marble. It was a regal multi-story building, its wings hugging a large courtyard that sprawled into well maintained park grounds. Green grass stretched in a lush field, bordered by walking paths with benches. Of course my eyes now fixed on the centerpiece of the park. The large Croton Fountain reportedly built decades ago to celebrate the completion of the Croton Aqueduct—proof that the water mains actually reached this far south. But, only for some. Clear water trickled in the sunlight, splashing down into the basin.

What a waste. How many lives could that fresh water save? My hands clenched into fists. Leaving Trud hitched to the post, I stormed up the stone staircase. Nadir scrambled to shadow me. I had never been inside this building, but I had a feeling I knew where the city council chambers would be located.

I had little to worry about, voices echoed through the halls drawing me toward the chamber.

“ … gentlemen, I think we can all agree about the nature of the concern. Several residents have filed complaints with the city in regards to the eyesore. Enough to warrant a need for a remedy. While we cannot remove the high stone walls enclosing the reservoir on fifth avenue, we have the option of providing something more pleasant to look at. Perhaps a bit of horticulture? Climbing vines of ivy look nice.”

“Yes, that would be far more pleasant than bare masonry. But which species should we use? Some are far more interesting than others. We shall also have to consider growth rate, spread, and how long the leaves are visible. Perhaps we should budget in a committee to explore ivy options? We would not want our solution to trigger another round of complaints, would we?”

Reaching the door, I opened it and entered the large gilded room. The sight hardly surprised me. Like the rest of the interior, it was dripping with what I had come to recognize as American-Georgian with its strict pompous aesthetics. The tall ornamented ceilings and walls gave one entering the room a feeling of inferiority. At least it was meant to. Two-story tall windows lined the room, letting in the daylight, framed in dark wood carvings crowned at their tops. Star-spangled bunting, resembling the American flag, draped from every available surface, clashing with the pale green walls. Above me a balcony stretched, meant to allow the public to observe on the members of the city council seated behind a long desk. The lot of them dressed in finely tailored clothing. The men leisurely reclined in their chairs shuffling papers in front of them. I glimpsed at the name-plaques in front of each man, committing them to memory. Just off to the center sat a man I recognized, Atherton Wellspring, the man who had praised Blanjini and I for our playing in Tompkins Square Park.

As I strode forward with Nadir in my wake, I passed rows of other men gathered for the meeting, with their gloves flopped over hats in their laps. Only a few seemed intent on the discussion. Others appeared to be napping. That was until I passed by them.

The atmosphere in the room changed with the thud of the door behind me. I did not take a seat. Instead, I proceeded through the aisle between the seated men directly toward the central desk. My eyes locked on the prominent men.

Alright Erik, remember to be humble. It will not do to make enemies of these men. Regardless of how I feel about Wellspring in regards to his response to my letter.

I came to a halt far enough from the wide desk so all could see me clearly. Standing in the awkward silence my unannounced entrance had created, I waited as the men glanced to one another.

At long last the man at the center, a Mr. Thompson, looked toward me in response to the urging of the others. “Pardon me, we are in the middle of meeting here. If you would like to address the city council it is by appointment only and our topics are already full for today.”

“My apologies for the break in protocol, gentlemen. But I assure you, this is a pressing issue that cannot wait for another time. I ask for but a few moments of your valuable time.” The words felt like acid on my tongue, but this was a time where a little sacrifice of dignity was needed to turn the ear.

A series of glances passed through them before they set their papers down. Thompson leaned back and gestured to me. “Very well. Please keep it short.”

I could feel Nadir behind my shoulder. What must they have been thinking of him? A clear foreigner in a secondhand suit. A servant perhaps? I did not have time to ponder this.

“Gentlemen, there is a crisis that threatens the whole of this city if not addressed immediately. Every day the threat grows more dire taking lives ruthlessly. Entire families have succumbed in a matter of hours.”

“Good heavens.” Thompkins leaned forward. “Why have we not heard of this?”

“But you have.” I held out a hand, gesturing to the north-east. “The Bowery is gripped by a serious cholera epidemic.”

Wellspring burst into laughter. “Aha, so here is our clever source of entertainment. That explains the mask. He does not want us to know who he is, this man who plays such a game.” A ripple of laughter swept through the group.

Reining back the growing frustration, I forced my voice to remain calm. “Death is not a game, Mr. Wellspring. It is a rather permanent state.”

“Come come, now. This is all rather amusing, but we do have a meeting to conclude.”

“Have any of you seen the Bowery of late? That ward is part of this city, containing citizens like any other ward.”

Again more banal glances. Thompson folded his hands. “No. Men like us do not frequent that district.”

And yet I had seen Thompson entering the Canal street brothel several times last month. Not only him but at least half of the council entertained the wares of our ward on a fairly regular basis. My eyes closed for a steeling moment, taking a deep breath. Patience, Erik … don't call them out on their lies. Politicians lie.

Wellspring leaned back in his chair. “Citizens? That ward is full of nothing but immigrant scum.”

“People, human beings. Please, you must understand that the hundreds of lives ending—”

Wellspring's answer cut me off, “... are worthless.”

For a long moment I could hardly breathe. To read it was one thing. To hear it said with such cold dispassion cut deep.

Thompson chuckled. “Indeed. There are more pressing matters than a mass of foreign cast-offs. We have the concerns of contributing citizens to tend to.”

“Contributing?” My temper threatened to lash out. I throttled it down, clamping a fist hidden in the folds of my cloak. “Who works in the factories? Where were the foremen sent to round up the missing workers who were carting and burying the amassing dead in the ward? It was not to the uptown district. That was in the Bowery. The backbone of your industries!” _Merde_ , watch it Erik, don't accuse them.

Too late! The men stiffened, noses rising in the air a bit higher. More than one eyed me suspiciously.

A Mr. Strick rubbed his chin. “There have been issues with workers not turning up. I had to send foremen out myself. They came back and reported they'd been assaulted by an angry mob. That must be his concern.”

_I_ was an angry mob? Certainly I had been angry … but a mob onto myself? Hah. Does no one tell the truth?

“Hardly a concern.” Thompson replied. “Relax, there are plenty of bodies to fill the work lines.”

My teeth ground. “What of the already impoverished lives who are now left without a wage-earner? Children left orphaned—”

“Go to the workhouse, as has always been the case.” Wellspring crossed his arms. “Is this some kind of tiresome test to see if we know how our laws work?”

“No. The letter you received detailed a harsh reality. Countless mothers are forced to watch their infant's burials—if they are not joining them in the mass grave! Capable tradesmen are fighting against dehydration and because of the conditions in the ward, many are losing. There is not enough wood for coffins on the whole of Manhattan, no wrappings for the corpses. By now most are going into the ground only in their soiled clothing, not even time for a proper funeral. This is devastating. I implore you to shift some resources now, while there is still time to save the impacted ward. Fresh water and assistance in burying hundreds of deceased will go a long way. Without such measures, this illness will reach into uptown wards. The death toll will continue to rise.”

Wellspring glanced to the others and shook his head. “We would be remiss in casting pearls before swine. Until the tenement occupants strive for a mere semblance of proper morality—”

I raised my finger and swept it across them. “The men and women who were forced into that squalor are beacons of morality compared to you! They have not turned their backs on those in need. Those struggling from day to day extend what they have to others around them, fighting to end this epidemic. The Bowery lacks the resources to combat this. Resources you would hardly notice missing.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Wellspring declared, “We are responsible for allocating the supplies of this city. We would be remiss in taking the water from the paying clientele and giving it away to those unable to pay for the service of getting it to them. There have been efforts to pitch the expansion of the water mains to the lesser wards. But truly, this ruse is among the most ridiculous.”

Had someone poured acid into my veins my reaction to his words could not have been more intense. We would get no help from them. I stormed toward the desk, my throat raw from the force of the words. “You horde of myopic, self-serving, societal maggots! People are dying and you are taking umbrage over what species of _Hedera_ would best cover the displeasing walls of the current reservoir! All we asked was the kindness of human decency. You have sentenced us all to death!”

“Us?” Wellspring rose to his feet. His eyes narrowed for a moment before he shot backward behind his chair. Others joined him. “Security! Remove this vagrant!”

“This will not end! Without action it will reach you!” Hands clamped on my shoulders. Though I struggled, the combined weight of both guards far exceeded mine. I was a slave to my flagging strength, too many days laboring with too little fueling me. That realization did nothing to stop my shameless thrashing as I was dragged unceremoniously down the aisle. “You blind greedy fools!”

Nadir followed in a panic. They had not seized him … in fact they had largely ignored him.

Before we passed the threshold, I glimpsed a man standing up from his seat. “Pardon me, Mr. Thompson, I know I didn't file, but I was wondering if I could pass something by the council.”

“But of course, Mr. VanHollus. We always have time for you.”

Tiled floors provided little traction. This meant that my frantic efforts to halt their progress were hardly met with success. They grunted, but that was all the more response I drew from them. Reaching the front door, they dragged me out into the blinding sunlight, to the edge of the stairs. To my shock, I found my feet leaving the ground as the guards dragged me backward before they swung me over the edge, sending me in an inevitable tumble down the stairs.

Nothing I could do changed my airborne path. I rolled and tumbled hip over shoulder in a dizzying collision course down the stone steps. I swore I struck every one of the dozen of them. I landed sprawled, chest down on the stones, tangled in my cloak. I couldn't move. It wasn't injury.

I—was—furious!

Nadir's rushed steps warned me of his approach.

Silently I urged him not to touch me.

Of course, he did. His hands gripped my shoulder. “Are you alright? Speak to me!”

I shuddered. The wave built through me before I surged to my feet, sending him wheeling backward. I tore up the staircase and threw myself at the door, letting the floodgates of my temper loose. I doubted even a single word I screamed was intelligible. The door had been barred and only rattled on its hinges.

Nadir shoved his way between me and the door. “Please! Get a hold of yourself. This won't help!”

I clawed at the air over his head even as he pushed backward on my chest. “I swear it! I will bring that whole building down over their heads! See how they feel about their world crumbling—if they even live to suffer!”

His eyes shot wide. “NO! Stop! You can't do that!”

Oh it wouldn't be that hard. Every building had its weak point. If not that … fire would work.

A dark laugh echoed inside my head. _I told you. When are you going to learn to trust me? How does that knife feel? Has it reached the husk of a heart you claim to have?_

“Let me go!” I pushed Nadir backward, but he rallied, keeping me from gaining ground. “They have to pay!”

“How will killing innocent men help anything?”

“Innocent?” I took a step back, sending Nadir flailing to catch his balance. My hands formed claws before me. “They have blood on their hands, can you not smell it?”

“Calm down! You're hysterical and attracting attention.”

I hardly had to glance to see his point. Folk enjoying the park now turned their wary stares my way. I could not stop shaking. I glared at the monument before me and envisioned its demise, the vile callous men crying out as the seat of their station crushed them to death.

_Yes, yes. Eye for an eye. In this case lives for lives. You know how buildings like this bear their loads. It would be so simple._

Simple. It truly would. I knew the intricacies of French Renaissance buildings. All it would take … I shook my head. Why make this work of art pay for that housed within it? No! I couldn't bring this down. Taking deep breaths, I fought to master my temper before I committed a sin against fine architecture.

At length, I grabbed Nadir's arm. “Come on, we need to get out of here.” I mounted Trud and pulled a rather relieved Nadir up behind me. Turning her to the north, I raced back home where I could spend my wrath without severe consequence. 

_**~Nadir~** _

I finally relaxed the tension I hadn't known I had been holding the entire rough ride back up the Bowery. The moment I closed our door behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief.

That was short-lived.

Erik tore his cloak off and threw it across the room, fit to be tied. Not a prospect I considered lightly. I could not blame him for being upset over the reception I had witnessed. After all, he had started far more diplomatic than I had anticipated he would, and remained so for far longer than I thought him capable. My hand on his arm as their responses poked his temper with hot iron went completely unregistered. I doubt he felt me try and urge a retreat. Of course, as he lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs where they literally threw him, I panicked that I would have to find a way to carry his unconscious, or worse—dead, body up the Bowery. Without his help I could not mount the immense draft horse. And I doubted I would be able to control her.

The series of curses in every possible tongue he knew, echoed off the walls as he stomped like an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum. At least here he could do so in relative safety. Somehow he had held it at bay long enough to reach home.

At the moment, there was no point in answering him, even when he managed to ask a question I understood. He never paused long enough for me to reply. At length, it seemed it wasn't a reply from me he sought. Damnable, would that voice ever leave him in peace?

A knock at the door I still leaned against startled me. I opened it a crack to find a very confused Chastity standing in the hall. “Good heavens, what is going on?”

I glanced over my shoulder where Erik continued to rant. My shoulders fell. “Everything is alright—for the moment.”

“It doesn't sound that way.” She tried to catch a glimpse. “It sounds like someone is getting murdered in there.”

“No, that was actually narrowly avoided.” Our metal candle holder slammed against the door frame, just shy of hitting my hand. I yelped and ducked.

“What was that?”

“The candle holder. At least he is thinking enough not to throw one with a lit candle. That's better than I expected.”

Chastity pressed on the door. “Let me in, I can help.”

I pushed my body harder against it. “No, please Chastity, for your safety! You don't know what he's like when his temper gets the better of him. I need to handle him alone until he calms down.”

Her eyes welled with concern, punctuated by Erik's almost incoherent yelling. “Nadir, you shouldn't face that alone. He could hurt you.”

“I would feel worse if he hurt you. Please, trust me. I have known Erik for a long time. He just needs a chance to work it out. We'll be fine once he vents his temper.” I forced a smile of confidence I did not feel and softly closed the door. I turned my back to the door, blocking his chance of escaping, unless he went through me in the process. His words were a bit more understandable now, but he still paced the length of the room like a caged animal preparing to rend its claws into his captors.

“Erik, you did what you could.”

“The nerve! Nadir, they did not even listen. Cream of the crop, they always say … and the accusations!” When Erik struggled to finish a sentence I knew he was beyond reasoning. “If any divine vengeance should be called down it should be on their shameful heads! If that is the prime of the human race, who would want to belong to it?”

I heaved a sigh. “Reminds me a bit of the royalty in Persia.”

“Corrupt, vile, seething pit of maggots!” Erik tugged off his jacket and threw it on the floor. At least it wouldn't break anything. “Lazy? Drunkards? Immoral unwashed masses? Their ignorance of the truth is staggering! Immigrants themselves, they have been here abusing their station for generations and are completely blind—no, they are consciously neglectful of the plight of their fellow man. And we have hardly been here long, yet—argh! How can anyone ignore what is happening?”

“This is not a perspective isolated to this new world, you know it … ” Something caught my eye. I pushed off from the door. “You're bleeding!”

He paused from his stalking and held his arm up, trying to get a better angle on where I stared … his left elbow. Unbuttoning the white dress shirt, he extracted his scraped up arm. It wasn't bleeding badly but the flesh was indeed open. He scowled and rolled his eyes. “Lovely. So now I shall be digging in cholera infested muck, burying the dead with open wounds inviting infections.” He threw his head back and shouted, “You want me that bad? Save us both some time, come and take me now, you bastard!”

I grabbed his arm. “Erik, will you please calm down. Let me clean these up. It won't take long.”

Erik removed his shirt and threw it at the wash tub. Getting the blood out would be my next task. Mercifully, he sat still on the desk chair muttering his tirade while I cleaned the various scrapes out of his line of sight.

It disturbed me, his scarred flesh from the previous abuses of man exposed as I cleaned up yet another. I knew **this** cause to have been noble. How many more scars had been earned in such a cause? Was it a wonder that, in the face of such treatment, Erik struggled with his identity as human? I dared not ask him, not now—not ever. In silence, I wrapped simple bandages around the open scrapes. His left arm wasn't the only one, merely the most severe. I suspected that had been the side he had first landed on.

In the forced disruption, his temper simmered down, his breathing more even as he lapsed into silence. When I had finished, Erik grabbed a rougher shirt and pulled it on, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Unless you want a very pissed off Russian hunting us down for the theft of his horse, I need to return Trud.”

“Erik, please don't do anything you might regret.” By the time I filled the wash tub, the clatter of horse hooves echoed through the window.

Allah, watch over him.

_**~Erik~** _

A hot wind stirred my hair. Hardly any light reached the Bowery below. But of course it wouldn't, not with a waning moon. Only a sliver of light remained as I sat on the rooftop. Hours ago I had spent my temper in the safety of our room. The only unfortunate victim of my tirade, our candle holder. But that was only a dent. It would still function.

I was tired … so damned tired. But I could not yet sleep. Not haunted as I was by the expressions on the faces of the men when I had told them the outcome of the meeting. My account murdered the hope in their eyes. I bowed my head in wretched failure, my chin rested against the neck of my violin. I had been their hope. The one voice in this place capable of speaking the city council's language, capable of reaching them … and I had utterly failed to turn their ears. I spent the remainder of the daylight hours among the gathered, trying to find some angle of hope.

The sun set with no revelation, only a further set back of the burials as work had ceased with my arrival.

The question plagued me, why did I care so deeply? Certainly part of it was self-preservation. An odd sense that even now left me staggering. If this was to be my lot for the remainder of my life, why should I want to linger here, imprisoned in squalor? The music of the Bowery wove itself through my thoughts. Betha's laughter echoed in my memories, a warmth spread in my chest. Familiar.

Love … I clenched my fist. What the hell did I know of love or any manner of affection? Hadn't Paris taught me I had no business there? Dear God, after the nightmare I put poor Christine through … I choked on my breath. Please don't torment me with my foolish schemes. I didn't understand the heart, I hadn't a clue what I was playing with … how much damage I had wrought trying to seize a selfish dream.

Was this why? Was this what now chained me to their plight? Trying to make amends for my monstrous game in the shadows? How utterly pitiful.

I lifted up my violin, my tongue could offer nothing but disaster. Her voice offered creation and a salve I needed now, though hardly deserved. The bow slid across the strings, releasing her soft voice to the air. A gentle song written on the wind. Sorrow and hope weaving into a lyrical thread beneath the sliver of moonlight. Hope I longed for … but could never reach. Not from the confines of this wretched hell. Even still … she sang for me.

I opened my eyes. Down below in the rows of windows, faces lingered, leaning out and gazing my direction. Tears glistened in their eyes.

I lowered my violin, curling around her like a guilty child, and whispered, “I am truly sorry.”


	15. Chapter 15

_ **Chapter 15** _

_**~Nadir~** _

I wiped the rain from my eyes as another cart turned the corner and headed my direction. It wasn't a hard driving rain washing away the edges of the pit, but a gentle one, persistent enough to be annoying. From my vantage point, I watched the patched crane sending down a body and bringing up a bucket of water. I could only imagine Erik's frustration at having to constantly bail out the pit as they worked.

The last I heard him speak was last evening when he left me to return Trud. Hours later he'd returned, fetched his violin, and without a word fled to the rooftop. I tried to muster the courage to follow him, worried about the state of his mind. After all, he had screamed a rather alarming death wish. But I knew from previous ramblings his revulsion to the notion of suicide. Apparently one shred of his religious upbringing stuck, preserving what he called his miserable life.

Then, a sound broke the night-locked silence of the Bowery. A haunting spell that could only have come from the tormented depths of Erik's soul. Coaxed from the strings of his beloved violin, I heard the pining for release held captive in music. His fingers brought forth a song yearning for comfort that would never come as it reached through the tenements of the Bowery.

Unable to resist the lure, I fell to my knees and wept. Above me, I could hear in every bitter note how Erik struggled. For one who claimed he was not ruled by emotions, this had repeatedly proven to be one of his most inaccurate observations.

Today, whether by rain or the recent events, spirits were drowning. Beneath a tattered awning, Blanjini continued to play his violin at intervals, marking the carts unloading. The only blessing, the rain suppressed the flies. One problem traded for another.

I shook my head, sending rainwater flying from my hair and pondered joining Blanjini under the awning just to get out of this rain.

The ladder sticking over the edge of the pit shuddered. Someone was coming up. Probably hauling buckets of bail water. After a moment, two heads appeared. One I recognized as Salvatore, a reliable man Erik had told me about. The second figure clung to Salvatore's back.

My heart leapt to my throat. Erik!

Salvatore was hauling Erik out of the pit. Even from here, I could see him shaking. Something was wrong! Dreadfully wrong—Erik was allowing himself to be carried.

I rushed over through the standing mud puddles, forcing myself not to scream out his name. By the time I reached them, Salvatore had swung Erik from his back and set him down. Erik sat leaning against the wall beside Blanjini. His jaw and eyes clenched tight. He shuddered ceaselessly, like a man with a fever.

Allah, no! Erik can't have contracted it! What would I do if he died? “What happened? What's wrong?”

Of course Salvatore's blank stare answered me.

Damn it! He didn't understand Persian … and probably wouldn't comprehend French or Russian. Erik didn't appear to be able to answer at the moment.

Salvatore knelt down beside him, speaking swiftly, concern raising the pitch of his voice.

Erik bowed his head and shook it. His hand reached out and gripped Salvatore's wrist, knuckles sheer white.

Salvatore glanced down, his hand edged toward Erik's left hip. The moment they touched it Erik wrenched his head back and bit back a scream.

* * *

_**~Erik~** _

Of all the things I needed now—! When I had woken this morning, I felt the nagging stitch. I knew full well of the rather colorful bruise sprawling my left hip. Hell, by the dark lines I could tell what precise angle it had struck— not one, but two of the stairs. But it had been a dull ache. A minor annoyance compared to the duty that awaited me here.

So I had done as I always had, pushed the pain aside in the order of achievement. 

That was, until the agonizing burn that continued to well, there forced the shaking muscle to give out beneath me. For a moment of dizzying confusion, I comprehended nothing but the white hot throb knifing through me. As I came to, I realized my left shoulder was rammed against the pit wall where I lay slumped … crying out. It took everything I had to bite down and suppress my shameful reaction.

“Nightingale! Are you alright? What happened?” Salvatore loomed over me, panic in his eyes.

Though I tried, I couldn't even get the words out.

At a loss, he crouched down. “Can you put your arms around my neck?”

Releasing the grasp on my hip, that I hadn't realized I'd been holding, I clung to his neck and he lifted me up, heading for the ladder as swiftly as he could. Each rung jarred the injury. My teeth ground hard enough to squeal at the pain.

I didn't even notice he had set me against the wall until it registered, the jarring had stopped. 

Salvatore knelt down beside me. “What the devil is wrong? Why did you cry out? Why did I turn to find you collapsed against the wall? What happened? Can you stand?”

I tried to shift my leg. The minute motion drove a fresh wave of agony through me. The hip wasn't broken. I knew that much. But a break wasn't essential to temporarily cripple. Throughout the morning, I had done my all to conceal the limp. Now I knew the true source. I have very likely bruised a tendon. My stubbornness had repeatedly dragged the injury across bone with each shovelful until the swelling drove it over a nerve, trapping it in a tight pinch. I should have listened. I should have stopped! I should have—AHHHHH! Salvatore's hand against my hip dashed all hope of salvaging my precious pride.

He cried out as my grip on his wrist tightened. I tried to release it, tried to ease up. But pain enslaves. I was powerless until it abated enough I could catch my breath.

Laying my head back, I stared up at the tattered awning and did not dare to move. Nadir hovered beside Blanjini, both of them sharing Salvatore's concern.

One at a time. I couldn't get it all out at once. I let my hand fall from Salvatore's wrist and met his gaze. “I will be alright. I just need a bit … ”

“What happened?”

I swallowed more air, still struggling to stop the shaking. “Yesterday … at the city hall … I fear that my unceremonious exit … had more consequence than I admitted.”

He blinked at me, scratching his head. 

That was a detail I hadn't shared. “When they threw me down the stairs … I took quite the tumble. I must have landed … on my hip … harder than I thought.”

Salvatore jerked backward. “They  _ threw _ you?”

I hung my head and nodded. Tugging my sleeve up, I revealed the bandage protecting my elbow. A larger blood stain marred it than had been there this morning. Proof that the tugging on the scabs had not been my imagination.

He drew back. And of course Nadir's eyes widened. In a moment I would have some explaining to do. But right now I could only manage one language at a time. I held up a hand for Nadir to wait his turn. Fortunately he complied. 

“Salvatore, please return to the others. Let me rest for a bit. Then I will be back.”

“But … ”

I waved him off. “Go. I just need the worst of this to pass so my leg will support me again.”

He laid a hand on mine. “First you need to stop trembling.” He turned and trudged back to the pit, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder.

Taking a few shuddering breaths, I turned to Nadir and Blanjini, speaking Russian for speed. I did not want to explain this multiple times. When I lapsed into silence Nadir knelt beside me reaching down. I swatted his hand away. “Leave it alone! There is little point in looking. There is nothing you can do. It is a bruise.”

“Are you certain that's all?”

“Yes.” I grumbled. “Besides what would you have me do, pull my pants down in public so you can poke and prod it? Make it worse? The pain is abating. I shall just have to take greater care.”

“Er—” Nadir's near slip drew a hostile glare. He swallowed and started again, “Nightingale, maybe we should just go home so you can rest.”

I laid my head back and averted my eyes. “Maybe you should go back to your task. I will be fine once this passes.” And yet it troubled me. The day was not even half over. The bitter truth was, the moment I stood, the clock would begin to tick once more. This nerve was not happy with me.

Nadir rose with a sigh and trudged back toward the carts. Bless his soul, the man cared too much. 

In his absence Blanjini turned my way. “Your breaths still shudder. Will you truly be alright?”

“It is passing, slower than I would like. And now I wish I had my violin. At least I would be able to contribute.”

He smiled somberly. “I look forward to the days when we can play side by side again.”

“How I miss the glorious music and the smiles our ladies bring.” I flexed my filthy hands lying limp in my lap. It wasn't just my hip. My whole body felt like a machine run without lubricant. 

“At this point you contribute far more than I. How many are actually hearing me as I play for the dead?”

“You play for the living. Far more hear than you know, Blanjini. Though I do not have the time to stop and listen, I can hear you. Your music conveys there is a world above the hell we dig, a siren song that keeps us anchored. Without it, I fear I would have descended into … well … ” I swallowed the last word.

_ Come now, just say it … madness. Admit it Erik, how very close to the edge you really are. I told you humanity would drive a blade into you. I was wrong about the placement. Not your back, but your hip. Oh, that is truly worse! And you had the nerve to try and hide the limp. Haha! What a marvelous plan. On your knees, servant! Remember who you pledged your service to. _

Even if I wanted to, on my knees was not an achievable position at the moment. Dragging my fingers through my hair, an unflattering whimper escaped me. “Damn it!” I barely managed to keep my voice close to a whisper. “Death follows me wherever I go. Can I not have one passage of time without that dark shadow cast over me? That is all that I ask!”

Blanjini's hand searched for mine, crawling along my leg. Thankfully he was on my right side, which had sustained less damage. Finding my hand, he laid his over mine. “Death follows life, this is a known circle.”

“That is not what I mean … ”

He held up his other hand. “I don't know precisely what you mean, but it doesn't matter. Nightingale, no matter what shores you fly to, you will find death there.”

I shivered, not from the pain in my hip, which was steadily lessening now. It was the stark declaration of the nature of my fruitless flight. I could never outrun the sins of my past. The voice in my head was the proof I could never escape my bondage. I had left Paris to abandon my past, but the shadow it cast spanned the whole of the ocean. If I was not the cause of mass death … my master would ensure I was rendered impotent to stop it. 

“Life is transient.” Blanjini broke the downward spiral of my thoughts. “Just as every song has a beginning and an end, life is not meant to last. That is what makes it so precious.”

“But … ” I struggled to put my thoughts into words. What of the children taken so young? What of the families who never knew comfort? What of the poor souls who never knew acceptance? Why are they made merely to suffer? All I managed was that single word.

“Nightingale.” He patted my hand. “You cannot shoulder this tragedy on your own.”

“I had a chance to stop this, a chance to reach those who had the resources to help …. and I failed!”

“You tried to reach ears that are not willing to hear. Eyes that will only see what benefits them. Hearts that protect only that which they find of value.” He waved at the Bowery. “We are not included in that. But no one can say you did not try. You bear the injuries of your effort with greater nobility than some. How many would have walked down here to help after being thrown down the stairs?”

Gazing at the men in the rain, I pondered his question in silence for a long time. There were some I knew who would. But I could not account for all of them. At length I sighed. “Sadly I think the council wishes for this ward to be cleared of us.”

He nodded. “From what I heard, that does seem to be so. Man has often shunned that which is different.” His head cocked. “Your hand tightened at my words, you know this to be true.”

“Deeper than you know.” I gritted my teeth. The world wasn't fair. It never had been and never would be. Yet … “When I make it out of this wretched slum, I will build an empire that lifts others from this hell. Those who work for me will be provided with the means for a real life, not this pitiful existence. I will not be blinded by greed. I will not become a heartless husk of a man whose inaction condemns others to death.”

His milky eyes somehow stared into mine. I knew he could not see. His scars proved the depth of the damage. Yet somehow, I swore he saw my pathetic carcass leaning against the wall beside him. “Your heart is beating in a cadence like a running horse.” I had not noticed his hand pressing against my chest, right over the ridge of the old knife scar. His fingers traced the line through my shirt. “Every human has a heart, and yours beats just as strong as theirs. It is their fault they refuse to hear the truth. Nothing that we can say or do will ever change a closed mind.”

Lowering my head, I sighed. He had to know. “You remember the day we played in Tompkins Square Park?”

“I do.”

“The man who praised us for our musical talent?”

Blanjini nodded. “I recall you telling me his praise.”

“Well,” my hand gripped my left elbow, “at the meeting, he was the one who ordered me thrown out the moment he learned I was from the Bowery.”

“Ah, I see.” He sighed. “A man so blinded by his opinion that he is incapable of seeing anything else once his opinion overrides it. A hollow man who will die with hollow accomplishments.”

I gazed at the pit. “At least he will have his name on a gravestone.” 

Before lunch, I managed to limp my way back into the pit for a couple more hours. The twinges plagued me, but I listened to them, taking lighter shovelfuls as it warned me. 

Huddled under what little protection we had, we shared our meager meal in silence. Various men stole glances my way. Word had traveled through the gravediggers and body collectors of my treatment at city hall. Heat burned unseen on my cheeks beneath the mask, shamed that I had not been able to prevent them from ejecting me. I swallowed the ale without tasting it. 

When the time came to resume, I staggered to my feet. Leaning against the wall for longer than I desired, I waited for a spasm to pass. No, I was not done for today! We were only halfway done. 

Conall's hand pressed on my shoulder. “Hey, you don't have to come down right away. If you need more time … ”

“I am coming.” I took a deep breath and left the support of the wall. My hip supported me. The nerve didn't like it. But I'd be damned if it was going to stop me. 

“Nightingale … ”

“It is fine.” I snapped over my shoulder. “Those uptown assholes are not going to stop me.” One rung at a time, I dropped down into the pit … for a few more hours until the nerve stole my resolve. I spent another hour seated against the wall by Blanjini talking and silently cursing my ill-fortune. 

By the time the sun began to set, it shamed me to ask, but Salvatore's grip on my wrist aided my ascension up the ladder for the final time. If he had not, I feared the stars would have stared down on me … stranded halfway up. When we emerged, Kazimir's cart waited. Several men sat in the back and waved to me to join them.

Coming to my side, Nadir nodded the direction of the cart and whispered in Persian, “There is no shame in taking an offered ride.”

I closed my eyes and hung my head. I would be fortunate if I made it half the steps home.

Just south of Houston street, Kazimir let us off. I limped up the stairs, biting back the burning waves of pain. I had angered the nerve by pushing things far more than I should have. Inside the apartment I stripped off my sodden clothes and leaned over the washing bowl, though the rain had done a rather remarkable job for me.

Nadir gasped as he turned my way. “Erik! That bruise … it's … ”

I didn't want to look. Didn't need to. I could feel the edges of the steps I had collided with on every part of my body. But the worst was by far my swollen hip. Out of the corner of my eye it was a dark blotch against my ghastly pale skin. I am certain that factor made it look worse. I let my right leg take most of my weight. My hand on the edge of the bowl sent tremors over the surface of the water. I was shaking again.

He swallowed anything further. “I … uh … I should change your bandages. We need to keep those scrapes clean.”

Wearily I mopped the water over my stinging elbow. “You are such a mother hen.” I did not care to think of myself as a fragile egg, or some delicate fluffy chick.

Nadir ignored my comment, preoccupied with tearing strips of fabric into fresh bandages. The old ones were filthy. After I cleaned the scrapes, he bound them tightly. Finished, he just stared at my hip at a loss.

Tired of his fussing, I snatched a dry pair of pants and tugged them on. “As I said, there is nothing to be done for it.” 

“Erik, what they did to you … that was reprehensible.”

Pulling on a clean henley shirt, I snorted a laugh. “Not the first time I have been treated like trash, as you well know. It is my lot in this wretched life. I should have known better.” Taking my violin, I limped up to the rooftop, carefully skirting the crack over our bedroom. I did not trust the stability of that area.

Seated along the edge of the building, I stretched my left leg along the stones. It did little to relieve the ache, but at this point nothing would. I brought my violin beneath my chin. Her voice, I needed to hear her sing. At this moment it was a burning desire that hurt worse than my injuries. 

Somehow she tapped the well of anguish boring a pit in my heart vaster than the grave. My bow slipped across the strings and gave life to the song my hands restlessly played. A lament intended for the dead and forgotten. Every faceless man, woman, and child … sacrificed needlessly. 

I would never understand humanity. If God cursed me to live an eternity, I would not comprehend the horrible depth of hypocrisy that mankind embraced. By the time I lowered my violin I knew … I was never meant to. 

Below me I glimpsed a child leaning on her windowsill, a soft smile on her gaunt face. She was not alone. Up and down the Bowery, nearly every window had a witness to my song, silently leaning into its embrace. 

The shuffle of a footstep turned my head. Nadir stood back, eyeing me with concern. “You're awfully close to the edge.”

“Simply to take the weight off my hip. Can you please dismiss your overattentive watch of me? I do not intend to fall. I have had my fill of hitting stone.”

He worried his hands. “Erik … do you see an end to this?”

I lowered my eyes to the observers, still bound by the music's unintended spell. Blanjini's words echoed in my thoughts …  _ every song has a beginning and an end …  _ The end. 

“Yes … I do.”

He took a tentative step forward.

Crestfallen, I shook my head. “Please do not ask me. I assure you, it will bring you no hope.” The stars looked down on us, we must have been tiny insignificant specks. God knew that's what we were to our fellow men. 


	16. Chapter 16

_ **Chapter 16** _

_** ~Nadir~ ** _

Morning came too soon. When Blanjini's violin called out to us I was already awake, lying on my back in the bed staring at the ceiling. The anticipation was killing me … along with the ache in my knee.  _ That _ wasn't helping. Standing for so many hours directing the carts aggravated it, but it wasn't enough of a warning that I needed to stop. 

Erik was already up, ambling around the apartment. His gait was off, one step heavier than the other, a hesitation far more marked than yesterday. When I entered the room, I came up short. Erik looked like hell! And for him that was really saying something. Beneath the mask, I could gauge his haggard expression. His head bent, eyes pinched; the way he wasn't quite upright gave him an unsteady appearance. Even his skin was a few shades off, paler if that could be believed. He had not slept well at all. But with a grim sense of determination, he crossed to the door and opened it.

I swiftly put my shoes on and followed him down the staircase. To my surprise, I caught up to him with relative ease before he even exited the building. Outside on the street, Erik's hitched step worried me. Yesterday morning his injury hadn't been obvious. He had managed to conceal it until the pain had forced him to be dragged from the pit, a sight that still troubled me. Erik's unyielding pride had given way.

In silence I held my tongue as I walked beside him. I knew he was being stubbornly foolish, but nothing I could say would convince him of this. In fact it would likely make him more resolute to prove me wrong.

The least I could do was go along with him, make certain his pain driven temper didn't wreak too much havoc. As little as I could do to stop him.

We passed the two blocks at a slow pace. Numerous times Erik wobbled, his hand half reached toward me in an effort to catch his balance. Somehow he regained it each time, without touching me. Several of the men fell silent at our approach, eyes watching. Kazimir snapped his head up to follow their gaze. From his perch on his cart, his lips tightened in a grim line. He was not alone. The other elders, I had come to identify, turned from the center of the group where they were organizing the men. Their eyes widened our way.

If Erik caught the expressions, he showed no signs of it. With his head bowed, I doubted he did.

Worried glances turned to Kazimir, he held up a hand to them and dropped down from the cart. Trud swished her tail idly at the change. On a course to intercept Erik, he raised a hand and waved him off. “Nightingale, the day is young and you are already limping.”

Erik had to swallow first before he looked up, replying through gritted teeth. “I am here to help.”

“You are injured. Please, for pity's sake go home and heal.”

With hobbled steps, Erik closed the distance and stared him in the eye. “You need all the hands you can get.”

The more Kazimir verbally pushed, the more Erik would push back. I hung my head. Unless something forced him to, Erik would not relent.

“Your words were heard yesterday, that you would not let those men stop you. It's appreciated, but what **can** you do? You'd never even make it to down to the cemetery as you are. You are lame.”

Oh … no! I shied back. 

Erik stiffened. “I am not crippled!” He raised his left foot and stomped it—hard.

My eyes beheld a minor miracle, the answer to my unspoken wish. Erik's own temper tore him down. As a result of his reckless stomp, he lost his balance completely, only to catch it—on the palms of his hands against the cobblestones. With his head bowed, and his jaw clenched, he knelt slightly cocked to one side hissing in each breath.

Kazimir crouched down and laid a hand on his shoulder. Concern softened his grizzled features. “Nightingale, go home before we must carry you.”

His fist pounded the ground.

Looking up at me, Kazimir waved me closer. He levered Erik up by his arm and draped it over my neck. A good deal of Erik's weight balanced on me. Kazimir pointed back up north. “Take him, make sure he gets the rest he sorely needs.”

I nodded and turned, careful to take steps slow enough for Erik to keep up. His eyes were open, staring blindly in front of us. I did not even try to console his battered pride. There were a hundred things I longed to say to him. Lectures wrote themselves. But not a word of them reached my lips. He was already paying a far higher price for having abused himself. 

By the time we reached the building Erik's panting filled my ears. We hadn't even climbed the flights of stairs yet. I knew the moment he realized this. At the foot of the first stair, Erik lifted his head and stared up the rickety flight. His jaw hung loose. 

“Come on, one step at a time.” I should have said one foot at a time. For Erik to accomplish this now required a step from his right foot. Then he was forced to drag his left up to join it. One-at-a-time. In the stuffy air, he was sweating by the point we reached our door.

Without letting him argue, I headed straight for the bedroom and eased him down onto his right side. His hand gripped the pillow tight. But he said nothing.

“Give me your mask.” With his other hand he tore it off and threw it at the wall. I sighed and retrieved it, setting it on the night stand behind his back. That could have been worse. He could have thrown his knife. 

Gazing at him now, I could see the swelling pressing against the side of his pants. I reached out and untied the waist, easing it back to expose his hip. The bruise looked like someone had spilled a burgundy wine on white satin. Two nearly black lines cut angles across his hip—that would have been the edges of the stairs he had stuck. One lay across the joint itself. Erik was damn lucky he hadn't broken anything. As it was, the skin was so taut from the swelling, that pressure alone must have been agony. Yet, he had explained a nerve was involved. No wonder not even he could push through this. 

He still hadn't spoken since his foolish display. I wandered into the other room and pulled out the container of Epsom salts, pouring some into the wash bowl and filling it with clean water. I grabbed one of the clean rags and walked back to his side.

His eyes were closed.

Without a word, I wrung the soaked rag out so it wouldn't drip excessively and spread it out over the swelling.

Erik jerked and glared over his shoulder at me.

I pressed against his arm. “Relax. Just doing as you taught me. If this helps my knee, it should help here. Bring some of this swelling down for you.”

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. I patted the back of his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

I had doubted he would follow my advice. I went out into the other room and stoked the coal stove to set his device to work, running the water from the day before. But when I returned to refresh the rag, the tension had drained from him. His breathing was slow and steady, fingers curled softly against the blanket he lay on. This was Erik claimed by sleep.

When I slid the rag off he didn't so much as twitch. I had a chance then. Resting my hand on his arm, I felt his usual temperature, slightly cool to the touch. When my hand drew close to his hip, I felt the heat rising. The joint was angry. Given what he had done to it, I was not truly surprised.

“Will you never learn?”

His soft breathing was the only reply.

I didn't need one. I already knew. Erik was far from a young man. If he had not learned to listen to pain, he never would.

Replacing the rag, I left him to tend the slow trickle of fresh water. Our lifeline through this disaster. I tended the embers, adding more rainwater to the still as it emptied. Twice more I refreshed the cloth over Erik's hip. 

The morning passed, filled by the sound of the carts rattling by on their way south … and the occasional snore from the other room.

I was just emptying the last of the rainwater into the still when I heard Erik grumbling. After a few minutes, I glanced up to find his disheveled figure wandering toward the desk. Though he had fixed his bed-wrinkled clothing, it still hung at rather odd angles. He wore his mask, I suspected mostly to give him something to hide behind. He limped, but it wasn't quite as pronounced as before. 

Carefully settling down in the chair, Erik leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “By the gates of hell, this is such a dreadful waste of time!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware how many hours you just slept?”

He turned a sideways glance to outside. For a brief moment he stiffened, clearly he had not been aware until that moment. “I uhh … well … ”

“How is your hip feeling now?”

His hand brushed against it, a slight wince. “Better. But the damn thing is not done troubling me.”

“Perhaps if you hadn't pushed it so hard … ”

Erik scowled. Leaning back in his chair as he was, the effect wasn't menacing, it was rather comical.

I tried not to laugh. “I am glad the salts worked. It's a shame a hip doesn't fit in the bowl, a soak would be better.”

“No more will that fit than your knee,” he muttered, flipping his hand. “The rag will have to do.” That was as close to a _thank you_ as I expected.

I stared at him and waited for his glance in the silence. When he looked, I nodded. “You're welcome.”

His eyes darted away, back to the shadows of the desk. Sunlight through the window reached a fair amount of the room meaning we need not waste a candle … the candle that now sat a bit askew in the holder. Erik's hands were restless, a sign his mind was too. “It has been a full week since the burials began … It was last Tuesday we filled the old potter's field. Yet, the carts are scarcely slowing. On average, Scilla was adding one-hundred to the tally per day. Which means, at nearly eight-hundred, we are close to my best case scenario without it slowing down.”

His words were not for me, but I couldn't help but listen. “Best case?”

He barely glanced at me. “One-tenth of the population, figuring on somewhere between nine to ten thousand occupants in the ward.”

Observant as usual, I doubted he had counted everyone, but instead employed his trick from the fair days for guesstimating what his cut should have been, in case the hawker was trying to cheat him. “That was your best case?”

“I told you the end I saw would bring you no hope. At this rate, one-tenth at the very least, and more likely only one-tenth will actually survive now that we are without any outside assistance.” His fingertips rolled in a cadence as he stared at the ceiling. “Even if folks are boiling the water, one wonders if they are doing so enough. Not that it matters, tending the ill is a risk in and of itself. And if they eat without rinsing their hands … uhhh … this would be so much simpler with proper plumbing!”

“Certainly.”

“But even though the mains run down to city hall,” his finger traced lines on the desk, I suspected a map in his mind of the layout of the city, “they reach from the reservoir on fifth avenue straight down to Park Row, bypassing the lesser wards. Every main line is buried.”

This thread began to alarm me. “Erik, no! You are not going to break into the water supply.”

He rolled his eyes. “First of all, have you ever broken a pipe? Not a pleasant experience. Tapping into it underground would take the use several pieces of equipment I do not have. Most critical of which is a manner to tunnel. In this area, that would have to all be reinforced with stone I do not have. Second, an attempt to breech the reservoir would be inane seeing as how it would likely lead to flooding all of the southern wards, and that is without factoring in the inability to conceal the above ground pipelines to route it here. There is no way to achieve that covertly. Third the prospect of smuggling barrels of fresh water by the cover of night is also without merit, as fifth is populated by a gaggle of nosy housewives who have nothing better to do than gaze out their windows and tattle on one another.” His hand tightened into a fist, though his tone remained unaffected. “Imagine if they glimpsed a  _ vile immigrant _ touching their precious water. The thousands and thousands of gallons of water that reservoir holds.”

The level to which he had broken that down chilled me. How long had he been pondering any of these options? 

Leaning forward, Erik folded his arms and rested his chin on them. “In all this time digging in that repulsive pit, all I managed was to chase those ideas in a never ending conclusion of futility. There is no way to get clean water to the ward without making someone the wiser. Once that is done, the plans would be for naught. If only the damned city council had listened.”

“That bridge is crossed.”

“All for money.” His words gained an edge, venom dripped as he continued. “That is all they care about. How expensive it is to bury lines. But that was why I asked for was barrels. Just a manner of carting them, something we could have done with access to the reservoir. That is too much to ask for lives that are worthless.”

He was losing it. Not that I could blame him. My only concern was that he would get carried away and become a victim of his temper—again. “Erik … ”

“Running water lines to here is not worth the cost. But it hardly stopped them from digging their sewers beneath our streets! You want to see our value? There it is. The only water we see is contaminated by their use in factories where men, women and even children work for a handful of coins. When they are maimed by the conditions, they are discarded for the next desperate soul scraping to survive.”

There was no point in even trying. I crossed my arms and listened as he carried on. At least he wasn't throwing things … and he could hardly pace. 

“Those fools just will not see the truth. It would take so little. All we need is a clean source of water and this horrible plague will fade away.” He covered his eyes with a hand.

I reached down to fetch the rain bucket, setting it on its hooked pole to return outside. Metal clanked against metal. “It's not like you can conjure up water from thin air.”

Erik spread his fingers, peering between them. Slowly he sat up, staring my direction. His eyes shot between the bucket and the distiller rapidly. “A source … ”

Turning back to the desk, he snatched a piece of vellum and his quill. Without even pausing, his quill slashed lines onto the surface. Not words this time, but swift sketches.

Glancing over his shoulder, I had no idea what I was seeing in the rough marks. But Erik clearly had a vision. He muttered to himself, numbers and figures. Snatches of phrases came out, but never enough to gather what he was up to.

I had ceased to exist. I knew better than to interrupt him. So, as the day wore on, I slid a cup of our weakly brewed tea toward him and a bowl of the nearly unpalatable soup. That did not break his focus as he worked. When the sun began to fade, I lit the candle from the embers and coaxed the gentle flame. On the desk, Erik was working on a third sheet of the complicated draft, still muttering aloud to himself.

My eyes began to close to the patter of those words. When at long last the scratching stopped, he set the quill down and lifted the page into the light. Smudges of ink blackened his fingers against the velum's soft surface glowing in the candle light.

He laughed. “It can be done! Nadir—it can be done! I hold in my hands the means for saving the Bowery!”

I dashed forward, shifting the candle so the flames no longer licked the corner. “For everyone's sake, don't let it go up in flames, then!” 


	17. Chapter 17

_ **Chapter 17** _

_**~Erik~** _

“Erik! Will you slow down!” Nadir's voice echoed from the stairs behind me as the door to the outside cut off his further words. It squealed open before he continued lecturing to my back. “Who would believe that yesterday you were practically crippled. If you are not careful about this, you'll make it worse again.”

I rolled my eyes, pressing forward. I was being careful. Though I would never admit it aloud, my forced convalescence had been essential. For two reasons. One, it brought the swelling my stubbornness had rendered to a raging mess down to a manageable ache, so long as I was mindful. After yesterday morning's melodramatic performance, I was determined not to repeat that embarrassment again. And two, which was overwhelmingly the more important product of my folly, it forced me to stop and think. Had it not been for that unceremonious fall to my knees, I doubt the plan now clamped in my hand would have occurred to me. My attention had been drowning in that pit of the dead. Though an essential step, we could never dig our way out of this.

As much as Nadir bickered about me slowing down, I pressed toward the men gathering in the dawning light. My steps were more even, the hip not nearly as angry with me. In the back of my mind I reserved a place for ensuring I monitored how it felt. A tendon-deep bruise was one thing. A torn tendon was a completely different matter.  ** That ** could permanently cripple me. 

At the edge of the crowd, I held up the rolled draft and pushed toward the elders at the center, gathered at Kazimir's cart. My voice dashed everyone into silence. “Hold on! Do not divide for the day yet.”

Kazimir narrowed his eyes at me from his perch on the cart. Seeing him first, I had spoken in Russian. Soon I would have to translate into several languages, but for the moment I just needed one. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving this ward.” I stepped up to the cart and unrolled the draft, holding it down with my palms. The palms that had shamed me the day before. “Gentlemen, we are alone. It is beyond apparent that no one will help us. So we obviously have to save ourselves. If those in power will not supply us with clean water, we shall simply have to make our own!”

Blank stares surrounded me. One by one, eyes fell to the stretched out draft. I didn't say anything, letting those crowding around see for themselves.

Quinn O'Connor pulled his cap off and scratched his head. “By the sweet Lord, that's a distiller!”

There were quite a few distilleries around. However, it occurred to me last night that they could hardly produce enough alcohol on a regular basis to provide for the entire ward. An ample supply of grains was an issue there. Changing them to distill water alone would also prove unsustainable. After all, they were attached to pubs. The other limiting factor was a water source. Access to enough would prove difficult as they would have to pump it from the wells and carry into their business. Granted, they already did this for their wares, but those were profitable. Why go through all that work when there was another way?

My finger pointed at the drawing of the large still. This I started to translate into a handful of tongues. “Yes. The process is simple. This still will sit atop a brick oven which will heat water fed into it through a pipe coming from here.” I pointed to an enormous open-topped catch basin. “Once the water boils in the still, converted to steam, it will travel into this long pipe, cooling as it approaches this chamber where it will emerge as freshwater, having left all the sediment behind through the first conversion.” I followed the diagram down to the large basin. “The fresh water will then be released here where it can be retrieved through a gravity fed valve for all to use. The primary tasks to keep this running are simple: releasing the water into the still, replenishing the reservoir for unusable water which will be pumped over the pipes of the cooling chamber, and stoking the fire. We will not need coal, as we have plenty of animal excrement for that. If we leave the structure largely open, the odor of burning feces will not be as bad as it is in the tenements themselves.”

I knew my first task was to convince the elders. If I had their support, they would convince the rest. Merton Ruger's eyes devoured the draft. “Will it work?”

“It already does.” I pointed over my shoulder. “Since arriving here and learning of the foul water, I immediately built a small version. I have been collecting rain water and distilling the soot out ever since.”

Kazimir quirked a brow.

I shrugged. “I had a particular aversion to the notion of contracting dysentery. It seemed an obvious solution at the time.” I wasn't about to explain how I used a similar contraption to obtain clean water from the underground lake for years in Paris and had never once fallen ill.

He snuffed a breath. “You are a strange one, Nightingale.”

“You truly have no idea.” I turned back to the plans. “This basin here, the first one, we will leave it open to collect the rain.”

Quinn nodded slowly. “With how much we have been getting of late, we'd have plenty. But that would have to be a rather large still to supply enough for the ward. I mean, we have to be talking … ”

I placed my fingers spread on the draft next to the brick oven beneath. “Imagine this is a man.”

Their jaws fell. Kazimir tugged off his neckerchief. “Where would we get something that large?”

“Easy. It already exists.” I folded my arms and met each of the five gazes. “With the roof and most of the walls collapsed, we have easy access. It has nearly all we need already there. The abandoned tannery on Canal street.”

Cornelio took a step back. “That building is property, belongs to the owner. And that land belongs to the bank.”

The words dragged claws through me. These men were used to fighting the stigma of the _ thieving immigrant _ , but what choice did we have? There, lying abandoned and deemed useless by the owner, were the means to provide a lifesaving resource for the Bowery. No one was going to provide us with anything. That action forced our hands. If the elders wanted to turn this around and save the people who looked up to them, we  ** had ** to cross a line. 

I slashed the air with my hand. “Fuck the bank!” All eyes around me shot wide, the meaning of my words universal enough to get across. “What those in power are committing is murder by neglect. So was the collapse of the tannery roof! We steal materials from a building that has essentially been condemned, nothing more. Their lack of action to aid us steals our lives. Which is the greater sin?”

Silence stretched. Eyes roved from the draft to the men gathered around. The gears were turning too slowly for my liking.

“I implore you.” I pointed at the draft. “In a few days' work, the Bowery will have its own water source, independent of those who would rather see us in the ground than toss a penny into what they call our greedy hands.”

“I do not wish to be arrested and thrown in prison.” Zemel had been silent the whole time, his hands clenched into fists. “Theft is theft. One day they will come down here and find out. None of us will be spared. We will all pay the price.”

Kazimir arched an eyebrow. “Aha, but will we even  ** be ** here to face it. If we don't do something, they will only find an empty ward. And do you think they will mourn us?”

Heads bowed. Only to myself would I admit the prospect of being confined in  _ the Tombs _ petrified me. Of course I had made light of it with Nadir, but compared with the squalor I glimpsed through those bars, animals in stock pens waiting for slaughter had better prospects. Men sat against the wall in fetid standing water. They were malnourished and too weak move, dressed in nothing more than rags rotting off their bodies. If they even looked up at me, their eyes were hollow, as if already dead and just waiting for their bodies to realize it. Some had been shackled. My wrists hurt just thinking about that, knowing that if I faced a sentence in those perpetually dark chambers that would be my fate. Denied my mask, my deformity for all to see. I could only imagine my demented screams, accompanied by the clank of the chains, while the guards passed on by ignoring me, waiting for the neglect to turn me into a wraith. I shuddered. 

Still, I could not deny the other certain promise my mind had concluded last night … I would risk imprisonment to avoid the certainty of a nameless grave. We just needed to not get caught in our little clandestine enterprise.

Gesturing at the draft, Kazimir eyed me. “Who will build this?”

“I will need the aid of tradesmen.”

“You?” He narrowed his eyes. “Oh wait, you spoke of foundations. And this draft … you truly were a stonemason.”

I snapped a nod. “I  ** am ** a stonemason. Which means I possess the knowledge to lay the bricks for the oven. I have some knowledge of bending metal, but the tannery already has sizable metal chambers for the hides. We can use those with a little modification. I will need woodworkers, a cooper or two for the catch basin. The one thing that the tannery does not have is the terracotta for cooling. I am certain we can locate enough of those.”

Kazimir held out a hand. “I support this. I know it will take away from the burials, but once we have clean water everything will change. We can go back to the way the Bowery should be, right?”

“Yes. The remaining infections will run their course and it will fade from the ward as we will have cut off the primary contraction site.”

Quinn stepped forward and held up a hand. “Aye, despite the risk, I say we take it!”

Zemel wrung his hands, turning away. “I will have no part in this.”

Quinn smacked his shoulder. “We have already been forced to take land.”

“Barren land. Land meant for animal refuse, a public lot. That is not the same as stealing property.”

Kazimir stomped over before him and pushed his chest, forcing him to look up. “How many more must die until you will wake up, old man?”

When Zemel did not reply, Kazimir turned and gestured to Merton and Cornelio. The latter's hand rested on Scilla's shoulder. Her stern gaze bored into him. Taking a deep breath, Cornelio thrust a hand in the air. “It is time to end this. What will they do? Arrest us all? There have been riots before and look how they ended.”

On hearing the words in his own language, Zemel's color drained. The old man shouted, “They did not end well, boy!”

“I am not a child!” Cornelio shot back, pushing his sleeves up.

“Only a child would sing praise of such dreadful days.”

I did not know the precise events they spoke of, those having passed before I crossed the ocean. But snippets of the tales still pervaded from the decades before. I did recall hearing that it revolved around a number of Irish boys. Thus I found it a bit odd that an Italian should get so bristled while Quinn rolled his eyes. There was little I could add, save to speed the translations.

To my surprise, the stoic Merton Ruger laid a hand on the draft. “If the act of saving our families triggers a riot from those who have abandoned us, then I say we are justified. The tannery is moldering and doing no one any good as it is. We need water now.”

Kazimir pointed to Zemel. “You, my wise friend, are the only one to stand back. So, you will continue to watch others die?” I glimpsed Kazimir casting a purposeful stare at Zemel's daughter clutching an infant—his grandchild.

Zemel's eyes puckered. “Theft is … ”

“ … sometimes the only thing that stands between a man and death.” I laid a hand on his shoulder. “We **must** have a clean source of water. Without it, the only choice is to let this disease run its course. Possibly to the fall of the last man, woman … and child.”

He inhaled sharply, head bowed to his chest. “May the good Lord forgive me.”

I patted his shoulder and climbed up onto the wagon. The decision had been made. Now it was time to get this going. “We are going to build the public water distillery. I need tradesmen and a good horse.”

Kazimir patted Trud. “For starters, you have us. I have got to see this.”

A short time later Trud halted the cart outside the collapsed tannery. A brick wall had given out right from the foundation. The weight of the roof on the compromised side pushed into the other wall. What remained was a debris laden hollow, like the collapsed chest cavity of some immense beast. Considering it had been abandoned in mid process, it certainly smelled as foul. The central beam tying all the rafters together had dropped right down in the middle of the floor. One of the tanks lay crushed beneath it. That one beyond repair. But that didn't mean it was useless. I needed metal to bend for connection pipes, we could even cut the rings for the catch basin from it. This would do for the scraps. Two more large tanks had been spared. There was a bit of rust, and they were fouled by the remainder of rotted hides left to molder. Hides? No, there was nothing left inside now but a putrid soup. That would need to be cleaned out before we could use them.

For this to work, we had a lot of clearing away to do. But the prospects looked ever more promising then I had figured. We had wood enough to support a roof to cover the still, open walls would provide ample ventilation. There were large boards for the cooper to make the open catch basin and the final reservoir barrel. Bricks for the oven and the still's platform. They were weathered and bit damaged, but they would function. The tanks for boiling and cooling, and metal that could be serviced for the connecting points.

Yes. It was all here except for one thing.

“Daniel.” It was but a moment and I turned to find the boy at my side. I held out a shard of terracotta, a piece that had broken from my contraption some time ago. “Do you know what this is?”

He shook his head.

“This is terracotta. It is sometimes used to make roof tiles, pipes, and pottery.” He was such a clever and resourceful boy. If any could achieve this quickly it was Daniel. “I need you to find me a good supply of this.”

“Just find it?”

I nodded and pointed at him. “Just locate it. That is all. Come back and tell me.”

“Does it matter what form?” He tugged off his cap and scratched his neck.

“Pipes would be the easiest. But I will make due with whatever you find.”

Daniel pulled his cap back on and ducked out of the building. The slap of his bare feet running up the street faded away.

I looked to the large tank that would become the still and heaved a sigh. “Conall, Salvatore, give me a hand with clearing this wall out of the way. We need a path so that Trud can help us lift this old tank.”

With the first stack of bricks, I felt the twinge in my hip. The next load I took fewer. This wasn't a race. If I went down, I doubted any could follow my scribbling.

It was well past lunch by the time Trud's harness strained to lift the tank from its premature burial. We had sorted the debris into various stacks; wood beams for frames, wood planks for the barrels, bricks, rope, various metal hooks and tools.

By the time dusk approached, we had cleared the foundation enough to build. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Conall had been a cooper. Salvatore had been a carpenter before arriving in Manhattan, he'd built houses. He claimed they were simple, nothing to be proud of, cobbled together from the skills his grandfather and father had passed to him. It hardly mattered as long as he could make something sturdy, this did not call for anything elaborate.

Of course I had to remind myself of that. Function over form. This was not a time for precious aesthetics to reign, no matter how much I desired to dress things up. Let the rich squabble over eyesores. This distillery need only produce life saving water.

A small figure cut through the gathering dark. Daniel rocked back and forth on his heels, a devilish grin on his face.

“You found it?”

He tugged his cap.

I wrung my hands in anticipation. “Marvelous. Show me.”


	18. Chapter 18

_ **Chapter 18** _

_**~Nadir~** _

Another blazing sunny day standing amidst the swarm of flies. But their constant pestering was the least of my concerns. Yesterday morning, after Kazimir's cart rolled off down the Bowery toward Canal street, was the last I had seen of Erik. I had chosen to remain with the crew at the pit—Allah knew why! I detested being here. Yet I knew there was nothing I could do to assist in Erik's plan to build our way out of this mess. I knew my presence hovering uselessly over Erik's shoulder would only serve to annoy him. At least here I could guide the carts; guiding the unloading. That was made essential because of the different men rotated through the task, sometimes throughout the day. Both the body collectors and gravediggers required strong stomachs. Some men only believed they had them.

Still, where the devil was Erik? Erik had not been at the morning gathering. I wish I knew precisely where he was working so I could check on him. As he had not even returned home last night, it worried me. Given my limited grasp of languages, I kept watching for those I could ask. No one seemed alarmed, but none had passed by the site on their rounds.

Kazimir had shown up at the gathering. After a short discussion, he loaded the tradesmen selected yesterday to work on Erik's plan into his cart and urged Trud off. Surely if Erik had been too sore to walk last night, he would have been given a ride. Or worse—if Erik had collapsed … but Kazimir seemed relaxed and even smiled as he drove the cart.

My panic began to build, none-the-less.

Annushka pushed a barrel on a handcart by me and held out an empty mug.

I nodded, “Please.” At least I could speak Russian. Throughout this whole endeavor, women and older children wove between the crews providing boiled water or ales, tending heatstroke or injuries; a variety of tasks that supported what the workers didn't have time to address. And that list was a long one.

“It's so hot out today, we decided to start earlier.”

I took the mug from her and gulped down about half. “I really needed this. There is no shade out here.”

“I'd lend you my shawl, but you'd look pretty silly.”

I laughed. Then it occurred to me. “Have you been to the … uhh … other site? The one where they are building?”

Annushka nodded. “Oh yes. I came from there actually.”

Leaning forward, I found my chance. “Did you see Er … Nightingale down there? Is he alright?”

She quirked a brow at me. “Why wouldn't he be? Of course I saw him. He was sitting on a broken beam laying bricks. My cousin was mixing the mortar for him. They were so engrossed in chatting I had a hard time getting their attention. Took four times to get them to notice me.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank Allah he's alright.”

Annushka giggled. “I have to ask, why is that even a concern?”

“Well, because … ” I ran a hand through my sweaty hair, “he didn't come home last night. After the other day I was worried he might have injured himself—again.”

She took the empty mug from me and smiled. “You worry for nothing. My cousin and Nightingale took their mugs to the shade. He was walking just fine. Maybe a touch stiff, but certainly not troubled.”

As she took the handle of the cart and moved off to the next worker, I couldn't help but wonder … then what had he been up to last night?

* * *

_**~Erik~** _

Dawn's blush touched the sky when I opened my eyes to the sound of Trud's shod hooves. I blinked and stretched. I hadn't intended on spending the night out in the open, but it was rather warm enough beneath the star-studded sky. If I had returned home I would've gotten less rest as a result. In the grips of a project like this I often found sleep was not a welcoming embrace, but an annoying disruption to production. I naturally avoided it as much as possible. Fortunately, I was a light sleeper, and night patrols did not happen in our ward. Why would the police give one whit?

By the time the horse-drawn cart came rambling up to the site, I was standing beside the draped handcart that had served as my makeshift bed. Well, mine and Daniels. The boy stirred and rubbed his eyes.

Kazimir blinked. Over his shoulder the rest of the men narrowed their eyes.

I just smiled triumphantly up at them, my elbow resting on the cart.

“Nightingale, what have you got there?”

I tugged back the corner of the scavenged tanned-hide I had draped over it, exposing terracotta pipes roughly the diameter of my upper arm, about the length of my lower. Easy to move, plenty of surface area. They were trapped on the cart by a stack of mortar mix bags.

“Where did you get those?”

With a laugh, I closed my eyes. “What you did not see, you do not need to know about. Shall we say … in the interest of plausible deniability.”

Of course in full view of the shock in their eyes, I privately savored the details of the midnight escapade. If only they knew …

Daniel and I pushed the cart through the deserted streets making our way up fifth avenue. It was quite the distance but, I took my time to keep the cart's wooden wheels from making too much noise. In the darkness, hardly anyone seemed to pay us any mind. That was precisely the way I wanted it.

At long last, Daniel waved me over toward a sprawling estate without a light in the windows, darkened for the night. Behind it lie a walled in garden with a gate. By now the moonless night shielded us from easy view as I set the cart in front of the gate and climbed on top. Now I had a good view of inside the high stone wall. Daniel perched on it like an agile cat and pointed to a stack of terracotta pipes beside an empty fountain in the center of the garden, as well as a number of other building materials. My eyes, well accustomed to the dark, caught a stack of brick mortar mix bags. That was another problem solved. I knew of a few ways to make something resembling mortar from other sources of earth, but this would hasten the process nicely.

Daniel whispered, “Will those work?”

I nodded. “Absolutely perfect.” The gate came up to my armpits, even on top of the cart. Of course it wouldn't open. I peered down the backside to spy an internal bolt latch. Standing on my tiptoes, I stretched my arm down and groped for it. At last feeling the metal in my grip, I slid it back. The gate opened into the yard on well-oiled hinges. Not even a single squeak. Well, this was working out fantastically.

Glancing up at Daniel I kept my voice hushed, “I need you to keep a good lookout. Let me know if any lights go on in the windows.”

He cocked his head. “You don't want me to help you load them?”

“No. Let my hands be the only guilty ones. If something happens, I do not want you worrying about me. Just run and hide. Do you understand?”

“But Nightingale … ”

I held up a finger. “I will have no arguments.”

With grim determination, he locked his eyes to the windows and waved me into the garden.

Back to old habits. Silent as the Opera Ghost himself, I crept through the gate, keeping to the bushes in full bloom. Everything was lush here, an oasis of scented blossoms that seemed a cruel mirage after the lower slums where the only green visible was either chipped paint or moss. I longed to run my fingertips over the leaves, to stroke the satin petals. But a stroll through the garden was not my goal. I had a critical task.

Closing the distance to the stack of mortar bags, I picked the first one up and hefted it over my right shoulder. My ability to move as soundless as a shadow came in handy. Soon I had several bags loaded on the end of the cart. Next I returned to the stack of pipes. They were in good shape, nice and thick walled, easily portable. I picked one up and cradled it over my arm, added another, and then one more. Three at a time were the most I could handle and remain silent. The fact that I had been mindful of my injury throughout the day was paying off. It hardly troubled me.

It took quite a few trips across the darkened garden, glancing up at Daniel intermittently to be certain that the household remained dark. The boy was diligent. Soon enough I had three dozen forearm-length pipes loaded on the cart. I tugged the rough tanned leather hide over the load and shut the gate behind me. Another old habit died hard. I climbed up and re-locked the slide bolt latch. Leave the gift of a little mystery come morning to our generous host.

Moving the cart now required a slow pace. Mainly because I didn't want the pipes rattling and rousing anyone. Daniel joined me, pushing at the back of the cart while I pulled it at an even pace. When we reached the front corner of the mansion, I glanced up at a name plaque hanging from an ornate hook. _Thompson._

I couldn't help but chuckle softly, “What a fine piece of divine retribution.”

“Sir?”

“Seems one of the city councilmen was putting taxpayer money to good use.” I patted the pipes.

His eyes widened in the darkness. “ _This_ is a councilman's house?”

“I would bet it is. One of the more emphatic ones who felt we did not need assistance. Serves him right.”

“So, I did well?”

“You could not have found a more ideal source, Daniel. I am certain he will be left quite ruffled about his missing project. Such a shame his fountain will run dry. Come on, we have to get these out of sight.” Block by block, we hauled the cart through the deserted streets without disturbing so much as an alley cat.

Pulling the cart up next to the dig site, I realized the night only had a few more hours before dawn. Daniel sat on top of the cart, his eyelids drooping. I patted our precious bundle. “Go on, get some well deserved sleep.”

“Are you going home?”

I climbed up onto the edge of the cart and stretched out, staring up at the starlit sky. “No point. Might as well stay here and make sure we were not followed.”

“Nightingale?”

“Mmm hmm?”

“Will these really help bring clean water to us?”

“Yes. It will take some days to build this, but I promise, I will make it work.”

His voice trembled a bit. “Good. Cause I don't want to lose anyone else.”

I couldn't promise him that. But I didn't have to. In minutes his soft snores rose into the night above me where he had sprawled out on top of the hide draped pipes, head resting on the mortar bags. I sighed, looking up to the stars before I closed my eyes, resting just beneath the surface, senses keen of any changes until Trud's clopping alerted me … dawn had come …

The men gathered before me, this time loaded down with their tools. Fortunately, I had brought mine the day before not knowing how swiftly we would proceed. “Before we begin, we should probably hide this in the unusable scraps pile, just to be safe.”

No one argued. Like a well turned magic trick, the pipes vanished from view. It would be at least a day or two before they would be needed.

We divided into the tasks. Conall began the careful selection of planks for the catch basin and reservoir barrel, while Oisin and Artyom worked at cutting the first solid ring from the best portion of the crushed tank. Salvatore and a man named Gavriil began building the wood platform for Conall's catch basin. Meanwhile Kazimir and I had placed some of the useless beams around the oven's rough footprint, outlined by anchored ropes. I began setting the bricks, leveling their rough surfaces as much as possible. Beside me, Kazimir had fetched some water from the well to mix the mortar. He opened one of the bags and started mixing it into a slop in an old bucket.

“How's this?”

I glanced at it. “A little too wet, that will not set right. Add more of the mix.” I returned to base leveling the first row. When he tapped my shoulder, I took a look. He had it. “Perfect, just like that.” With a make-shift trowel, I caked the mortar on the end of each brick, locking them in a long line. Kazimir sat to my right, shifting a steady supply of bricks closer to me. Around the full base we went in a monotonous pattern. The layers began to rise up from the ground in the morning heat. I only noticed the passage of time by the change of the shadow's angle when I held the plumb lead. This process went rather swifter than building with immense blocks of stone. An observation that I relished. This structure needed time to cure before we could lift the still on top of it. Which reminded me, I needed to build a crane to lift each of the four vessels.

Rounding to the front of the oven, I now had enough layers to start the wide arch for loading the fuel. This would take a few tricks of the trade that Giovanni had instilled in me.

Kazimir glanced over his shoulder at the plans. “How are you going to keep that up without it falling?”

“Arches are incredibly strong once the keystone is in place. There are a few strategies essential in the process.” I pointed over my shoulder. “I reserved a number of boards for making braces.”

“Aha! I was wondering what those were set aside for.” He turned back to mixing a fresh batch of mortar. “Nightingale, where did you learn how to do all this?”

I nudged a brick into place wondering how much I dared to share. “A master stonemason without a son took me as an apprentice and shared the secrets of his trade before they were lost to this world. He was a brilliant man with a deft touch, or else I should never have lasted in his service.”

Kazimir leaned his head back and laughed. “Oh I wish that I'd served a master like that. My captain was a salty fellow, with exacting standards. A man married to nostalgia, he loved the scent of the old tall ships and the snap of the sail on the wind. He would not tolerate a smudge of filth on his deck, nor a stitch of sailcloth out of place. Made me an attentive cabin boy by threat of the lash.”

I hoped he hadn't seen me flinch. “There was no place for a lash on the worksites.” I got up and fetched the first boards to support the growing arch. “My master's stern gaze was punishment enough. A failure was met with repeating the task until the worker got it right. He rewarded true effort, and laid the more grueling tasks on those who attempted to slack. It was never an easy life in the quarry nor at the build sites. The one lesson a man could never forget: complacency kills.”

“Not just with the stones. Ho no. The sea will claim the unwary. Don't care if a fellow has been on the waves a day nor a decade. She will swallow you whole. Even on a calm day, Captain never let me forget that as I rose through the ranks to boatswain.” He was shifting the bricks for me, stacking them within reach.

I fit the beginning of the wooden rig in place and started on the next few upright bricks. Giovanni had no need of teaching me to fear complacency—for back then my instincts never turned off, even for a single heartbeat. I was vigilant of every twitch of a man's eyes my direction. For me, his deepest lesson had been a flicker of hard-earned trust, from the first human to actually try to reach out to me. With gentle patience he gave me a brief respite from the onslaught of the world … a shelter from the unending storm of persecution. I smiled at the memory.

“That's an odd expression when speaking of drowning men. Why are you smiling?”

I set the next brick while I murmured. “Working with bricks, something akin to stone, brought me back. Just remembering when I helped the master rebuild his rooftop garden. He was so strong and yet gentle when he caressed their petals, taking in the scent of the roses on a morning like this. Absolutely spellbinding.”

“Bet that smelled a good lot better than this slum. Or the odor of fresh pitch when we careened the hull and pumped out the bilge. Phew! That will give you a headache for days.”

I eyed him and grinned. “You think that an assault to the nose is bad? Try striking a chisel from dawn til dusk, breaking marble from the quarry walls. Each sharp sound echoing in your skull. The vibration up the bones in your arm making it go numb well before the sun crossed the sky. Slivers of travertine in your skin making it bleed every time you moved your fingers. You go to bed exhausted and the next day it starts all over again.”

He fixed me with a challenging stare. “Ever been on the ocean in the winter?”

“I came over here in the winter. However, that was not above deck.”

He flashed a wicked smile. “Oh the spray, like tiny needles of ice, bursting over the rails. Building up in a thick, board breaking blanket. A hammock so cold that it cracked when you rolled over.”

In the heat of the day that sounded almost welcoming. I checked the plumb as the arch climbed on the brace. It was veering off. A few taps to the bricks on the brace and I was back on target.

A shadow grew over my shoulder and Kazimir paused to the clearing of a throat. “Sorry to interrupt, cousin. But I have a duty and many more to serve. I can't wait until you've told all your sea stories.”

I glanced over my shoulder to find Annushka holding out two mugs of ale for us.

“Drink before you pass out from this heat.”

Kazimir took his and lifted an elbow toward the shade. I pushed up from the make-shift seat and followed him with my own mug. We found a patch of shade from nearby the pile of rubble and Kazimir held up his mug. “Have I told you of the time we faced a sea monster?”

Annushka rolled her eyes. “I am warning you, don't get my cousin started.” She pulled her cart away to serve the rest of my crew.

Before she even fetched our empty mugs, I understood why. Hours later, after lunch, as I was finishing setting the arch he was still telling the long staggering tale that sounded vaguely akin to Homer's Odyssey. It filled the silence, helping to pass the time.

And it also kept him from asking more questions. Thank goodness for epic sea sagas. It filled the whole of the day with visions of towering waves and the man-eating beasts that breached them.

As the sun set, I had nearly completed the oven. Tomorrow I need only close the gradually flattening arch of the roof which the still would sit on. The structure by now had reached my shoulder height. This time, I placed my tools in the bag over my shoulder along with the rolled plans and mounted Trud's cart for the ride up north. This would be faster, giving me more time to work on another critical piece of this project.

Home, bone weary and exhausted. To sleep, and return to task for another day … a lesson I learned ages ago by a man who saw a future I didn't dare too. So often after laboring for the day, I returned to my refuge in his cellar, to tinker into the hours of the night. How little that changed. I looked to the glimmer of starlight and thought of Giovanni's generous eyes. I could not squander his gift to me. This isn't a grand structure worthy of your teachings … but give me time, I will honor you again with something grand. I swear—I will live to build again.


	19. Chapter 19

_ **Chapter 19** _

_** ~Nadir~ ** _

Would I ever get used to Erik's tendencies? For hours I had attempted to fall asleep shortly after dusk, like a normal human being. First, his violin from the rooftop kept me up. Then, an endless series of strange sounds disrupted the quiet night, metal being manipulated. His busy shadow was thrown against the wall by the flicker of the candle.

Wearily, I dragged myself from the bed and stood in the doorway. Erik sat at the desk, all but one of his drafts cleared off onto the floor. A collection of strange parts lay before him, scavenged from Allah knew where. He was fitting things together, tinkering with some mechanical device. His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.

I yawned, “Erik, are you ever going to sleep?”

He picked up a gear and eyed it, turning it in his fingers. “When I am finished.”

“Good, cause I would like to get some rest. When will this be?”

Setting the gear down, he picked up another one, examining it. Distractedly he remarked, “In a few more days.”

I scratched my side. “Good, good, a few more days.” My eyes shot open. “A few more days! Erik you—”

“Close the door if you must, but I need the candlelight if I am to have this part ready. This is not something I can build down at the site.”

Curse his insomnia, it was contagious due to his activity. What was the point of returning to bed. I would just lay there hearing him bustle about, caught up in some device he would not even explain to me. It better not be some form of retribution. Honestly, it looked as though it might be.

He installed a selected gear. “Nadir, were you at the pit today?”

I nodded and ambled out into the room to get a better look at the device. There didn't seem to be any nasty little surprises so far. No spikes to be driven into waiting flesh. Nor jaws to break bone. Distantly, I heard his question, not liking the memories of the day. “Yes.”

“Are things slowing at all?”

That was why I didn't like being reminded. My head hung. “Not one bit. It seems there are even more with this un-abating heat. I know you told them to boil water, but it looks like some aren't doing it long enough.”

“Or at all.” He turned a gear and shook his head as nothing else happened. “Not tight enough. Cannot have that slipping. And if what you are saying is correct, I need to finish this sooner.”

I cocked my head. “Is that part of the distiller?”

Turning the gear after an adjustment, he nodded. “What else would it be for?”

Exhaling louder than I wished, it earned me a rare mid-project glare from him. I swear I could see him selecting a retort. At length, Erik turned back to the desk. The motion was aborted when he winced and tugged his sleeve back exposing the old bandages.

“Tell me you've changed those.”

He shook his head.

“You fool!” Closing the distance, I tugged off the larger one around his elbow, frightened half to death of what I might find. He hissed as my hasty efforts pulled part of a scab off.

“If you had slowed down for a second, instead of ripping it off, I would have told you it had caught!”

Fortunately there were no signs of infection. Unfortunately, I had reopened what was healing. “This … this shouldn't have been left on that long without being tended. You **know** that.”

He rolled his eyes. “I do not have time for this.”

Thrusting a finger at his chest I snapped. “No more than the others have to boil water? Erik, do you have any comprehension what an infection would mean for you right now? The Bowery needs **you** , alive and well.”

To my surprise, he didn't try to escape into his device. Stilled by my lecture, he met my concerned gaze.

I reached out. “Now, give me your arm. Let me see to those.”

Without a word, he raised his arm and held it steady as I cleaned up the mess I had made. For a brief moment, I had stilled his frantic flight against this hell. But that was Erik, absent to his own needs when something captivated his attention. How he had managed not to starve to death throughout his life eluded me.

* * *

_**~Erik~** _

Every scrape of my make-shift trowel echoed inside the ever enclosing cavity of bricks. I worked over my head with a series of braces keeping the roof from coming down and burying me. One benefit, though the airflow was rather nonexistent, I was spared the harsh beating of the sun. I had left strategic gaps in the wall bricks to supply air for the burning chamber as the convection current would pull it through, not simply the arch opening to supply the fuel. Once this was finished, the mortar would need time to cure.

“Nightingale? Where are you?” Oisin's meek voice sounded even more distant through the walls.

“In here.” Contained in the chamber, I sounded a great deal more threatening. I wasn't intending that at all.

After a moment, Oisin appeared at the opening and blinked. “You did this yourself?”

Setting the next brick, I chuckled. “Not entirely, Kazimir helped.”

His eyes, wide as a startled deer's, roved over the structure. “This wasn't here two days ago. And now … I wouldn't have imagined this so quickly.”

Holding up one of the bricks, I shrugged. “Simple. The material speeds the process. When one is accustomed to building with blocks of marble, weighing tons that require equipment to move, something that fits in the palm of ones hand almost lays itself.”

“Still, it's amazing.” Oisin studied the arch. Confident in my work, once I'd fit the keystone, I had been able to remove the braces.

I cleared my throat, turning back to my task of closing the roof. “You were looking for me?”

“Ahh, yes. Conall is pounding the last ring on the catch basin and said it would be ready to lift after lunch.”

“Good. And Salvatore's platform for it? Is that ready?”

He nodded. “He's up there now making certain everything is sound. We're wondering how we'll get it up there.”

“Never you mind, let me finish here. I have that detail all worked out.”

Spreading his arms wide, Oisin locked eyes with me. “But that thing is huge!”

I reached up and set another brick, replying blandly, “So are quarry stones, I have moved countless blocks of marble.”

“We're going to need at least a dozen horses.”

“Trud will do.”

His voice went up an octave. “How?”

“You shall see.”

Less than an hour later, I emerged from the oven into the searing midday heat. Now that was hard to imagine … an oven being cooler. Once it was functioning, that wouldn't be the case. Outside, I stood beneath the tall wood tower with its platform several stories high. Beside the base sat a catch basin six meters in diameter, like an open topped barrel. Conall paced around the outside examining the planks held tight by the metal bands.

I climbed up the ladder to the platform. Not a board shifted on the structure, everything sound, despite the scavenged materials. Fresh cut edges revealed the color the wood once was, rather than the dingy weathering. Walking around the edge, I found Salvatore hammering in a board. “You belittle your skills. I can see the house framing in this, though of course much stronger. We will have need of that once the basin fills, there will be a lot of weight.”

He pushed up from the floor, taking the hammer with him. “I reinforced everything. But this seems a bit high. How are we going to get Conall's basin up here?”

“We need the height for the gravity to work. As far as getting it up here?” I smiled. “A bit of magic.”

Salvatore followed me down the ladder and over to the stack of larger, usable beams. I had set aside a good deal of bricks; too damaged to be used for the oven. Too damaged for the oven, but not for a counterweight. The crane we needed this time had to be larger and more robust. By the time I finished explaining the design I had used quarry-side and at build sites alike, he was smiling and eager to begin.

The sun reached its zenith, seeing us half finished with the execution by the time Allegra and Yankel pulled their cart up. Gathered in the shade of the tower's platform, we leaned back and savored the blessed ale. On her cart I glimpsed a copy of the newspaper. “May I?”

Allegra handed it over. “There isn't any news about us. The whole matter vanished after Monday. All the council reports is a committee for selecting ivy to beautify the Croton Reservoir.”

“Hardly surprising.” I paged through, skimming the headlines for anything of interest. My eyes stumbled on an article. I sat up straight, reading slower.

_Mr. Thompson of the city council reported a theft Thursday night. Strangely, three dozen terracotta pipes intended for the installation of his new garden centerpiece, a three tiered fountain, were discovered missing Friday morning from his secured walled garden. The police examined the residence and found nothing afoul aside from the missing pipes. The gate was locked from the inside, and the height of the wall would make it quite troublesome to climb over._

“ _What disturbs me the most about this,” remarks Thompson, “was that my wife and I were sleeping throughout all this. They could have broken into the house and taken the silver! That was my wife's greatest concern. What kind of a person steals something as worthless as pottery? No one can figure out how they managed to get it out with the gate still latched.”_

_When asked about his project he replied, “I will have to order replacement piping. The fountain will have to wait until I get more. My wife is quite aggrieved by this. She had her heart set on planting around it. Now, she will have to wait until the new pipes are buried.”_

_If anyone has information regarding the pottery theft, please report to the police on this serious matter._

I laughed to myself about the  **serious matter** , raising a mug of ale in a silent toast. Daniel had inadvertently provided one shred of payback to the callous city councilmen. Even if Thompson had no idea … I did. And that was the sweetest revenge possible, leaving him paranoid for the next strike that would never come. Because I had better things to occupy my time. 

After our little break, Salvatore and I completed the crane. Considering it was cobbled from repurposed materials, this was hardly one of my most appealing creations. But it was far more durable than the one at the pit. And considerably taller. 

Kazimir backed Trud up and hitched her harness to the rig. He eyed Conall's basin, which I was securing to a rope cradle. “Hey, that's more than she can lift.”

I pointed to the counterweight—a box of bricks. “That is where the physics comes in.”

“If you hurt my horse—!”

“I would never forgive myself.” Holding up a hand, I dismissed it. “She will be fine. Are you ready?”

He looked a bit doubtful but held onto her reins and nodded. The rest of the crew gathered around me on a line hanging from the basin's cradle. I'd gone over the plan with all of them. Now, it just took the magic act itself. How one horse could lift something many times her weight. Not just by the counterweight … but by the block and tackle pulleys on the line. I hoped no one asked me where I had obtained those.

“Ease it up!”

Trud came to the end. The rope creaked, but held. Slowly, the basin rose into the air, one horse step at a time.

Kazimir blinked as it lifted above the height of a man. We had a ways to go yet. “Faster?”

I shook my head, my hands on the swing line. “Keep it steady.” The last thing I wanted to do was drop this. Shattered wood could maim and kill, especially when working on something this large. 

Gradually it swung up, clearing the platform. “Hold!”

Kazimir stopped her motion and the basin hung in the air.

Now, to get it over the platform. This was where the swivel came in. At the end of the crane I had attached the line we now held. We stood along the side of the platform, parallel. “Now it is our turn. Pull!”

Leaning back, all six of us, except Kazimir who held Trud steady, dug our feet into the dirt, grunting as we scrambled for purchase. It took a few moments for the large load to begin to shift. The broad beam of the crane was heavy, the basin easily close to the weights of stone I had moved before. Luckily, everything held.

It was probably only a quarter-hour's work, but it felt like an eternity. Finally the basin hovered in the center of the platform.

Nearly breathless from the effort, I called out, “Kazimir, back her down!”

I heard him click his tongue and slowly the massive basin lowered, coming to rest. Slack played on the ropes.

We held our collective breath, watching, listening for some sign of eminent failure. 

It didn't come. 

The men threw their hands up and danced in circles. We had a long way to go yet, but this was one hell of a start.

“Nightingale?” Salvatore tapped my shoulder. “Should I begin building the framework for the roof?”

“Not yet. We have to lift two more tanks and the reservoir barrel. We will need the crane for that.” I patted his and Conall's shoulders. “Good work, both of you.”

Conall stared up. “I'm still amazed we got it up there!”


	20. Chapter 20

_ **Chapter 20** _

_** ~Erik~ ** _

My position was not precisely comfortable as I leaned over the edge of the metal basin we had cut from top of the scrapped tank. My stomach pressed against the roughly bent over rim, my arms fully extended at odd angles adjusting the device now seated in place between the platforms for both tanks. The angle of my body extended my hip, the tendon did not appreciate the strain. But I had little choice. If this was to work, it needed to be partially submerged.

Beside me, Salvatore had framed the large basin we had cut from bottom of the crushed tank. This created a chamber below the platform where the cooling tank would sit. Now he was working on the supports where the tank would perch. In the vast basin, I had already stacked the three dozen terracotta pipes on their sides. The pristine pottery was an unusual shade of red against the Bowery's unbroken mud brown. Before I had laid the pipes, I had used a chisel to punch holes near the top of their chamber to allow air to flow through.

Sweat dripped off my neck into the smaller base for the machine. Salvatore glanced over the edge of the cooling tank platform. Between strikes of his hammer he asked, “What is that?”

“A pump.” I grunted, trying to adjust the angle of a larger gear. Building it on site would have been better for this part. But I did not have the luxury of time. 

“You mean someone's going to have to stand beside this thing and work a pump?”

“No.” I pointed to the piston. “Once we have the heated still on the brickoven, I will link them. The steam pump will push unusable water over the terracotta pipes in a self sufficient cycle. Evaporation will cool it, speeding the rate of condensing the clean water.”

Salvatore paused and leaned closer, studying the machine. “So the oven will run everything?”

“That is the plan.” At last I managed to get the angle close to my best guess and slid off the rim. My hip appreciated the relief. “I will not know for certain if I have adjusted it right until it is attached and we can fire up the oven.”

“That should be a hell of a lot easier than hand pumping. I swear you thought of everything.”

I was about to reply when a frantic shout caught my attention. “Nightingale!” I turned to find Daniel racing down the street. “Patrolman! Patrolman!” 

My heart leapt to my throat. We were reaching the more critical part of the operation. I had sent the boy, along with a few of the other streetwise urchins, as lookouts. The police rarely wandered over this way. But something had whispered in my ear not to be too trusting in our recent streak of good fortune.

_Told you._

“Silence!” I hissed under my breath. Turning to the crew, who all stared at the boy's frantic cries, I darted for the pile of rough-tanned hides. “Quick! Cover the chamber!”

Salvatore stayed on top and flung them over the pipes as we tossed them up. “Let me guess, these pipes were not obtained legally.”

I didn't answer, I just met his stare. In a few moments the evidence lay hidden. I waved the men back to their tasks. “Do not look nervous. Just work as though this is our job.”

Of course, to my beleaguered crew, that task was difficult due to how often policemen were known to invent a crime. Just to exercise his own dislike of a certain ethnicity. 

Grabbing my mallet, I stood beside the platform checking the nails with strikes even though I knew them to be sound. Oisin, Artyom, Conall, and Salvatore all stole glances down the street toward the oncoming threat. Daniel had vanished.

Tense minutes passed before the officer strolled into view. Even from the corner of my eye, I caught his brow furrowing as he pressed his hat back. He wandered toward the structure, truncheon swinging at his side.

I kept my head down, ignoring his intrusion as he scratched his head. 

Standing up from sticking his head in the oven, he swung the truncheon among us and called out in English, “Eh, who's the foreman here?”

No one stopped working. The truth was, only Oisin had a good handle on English. The rest didn't understand his words so they couldn't answer. I certainly didn't volunteer. 

He curled his lip at being ignored and struck the truncheon against the bricks. I flinched, hoping he hadn't shifted any of them. Now everyone looked his way. Raising his voice and speaking slower, he shouted, “What is going on here?”

Blessedly they gave him blank stares, even Oisin.

When once more his question was met with silence, he pointed up at Salvatore, the most elevated man on the site. Typical assumption from a snap-judgment mind. “You there, who are you working for?”

Salvatore scratched his head, replying in a gush of Italian. “I don't know what you are asking me.”

The patrolman's eyes narrowed. He turned to Artyom, who worried his hands at the attention. “You, answer me, what are you doing?” 

Artyom shrugged and blurted in Russian. “I cannot answer a question I don't understand.”

He clearly didn't understand either. This further fueled his ire. He stomped toward me and grabbed my shoulder, forcing me to face him. The moment I turned he stepped back, eyes roving rudely over my mask. I kept my gaze down—to watch his hands, my hand flexed for the concealed knife. 

_Erik, strike him before he strikes you._

Murdering an officer would significantly compromise our plans. 

“What's wrong with you, some kind of freak?”

I had to get him to back off. To leave without a backward glance. For once, playing on the stigma could be in our favor.

With a trembling hand, I gestured toward the mask and purposely took several severely mangled attempts at English, oddly resembling Nadir's first stuttering attempts. “Di … dise …. disease.” 

His eyes widened and he scrambled backward, wiping the hand he had touched me with on his trousers. The patrolman spit at my feet and pointed a shaking hand. “Filthy unwashed immigrant! That's all you lot bring here, disease. Burdens to our great city.”

On the contrary, I had maintained my rude health throughout all of this. The burn of his words bore into me, but I flinched at his tone, pretending not to comprehend him. I reached out toward him with a groping hand. 

The ploy worked. Fear welled in his eyes. He thrust the truncheon between us and scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet. “Stay away from me!” Terror shook in his words. 

What had plagued me the whole of my life was hardly contagious due to the nature of birth defects. But his ignorance became our salvation. I pressed toward him, hastening his departure.

“Stay back! I'm warning you, gutter rat. Lay a hand on me and it will be the last thing you do!” 

I flexed my fingers and mangled another word, mixing with other languages to make it difficult to comprehend. “Ag … agony.”

Oh, that message got through. With an undignified squeal, he tripped and scrambled to get back on his feet. The moment he did, the officer dashed the way he had come, abandoning his patrol.

I laughed, an old laugh I hadn't heard since the walls of the Opera. “I trust our inquisitive friend will not return.”

Oisin blinked and pointed at me. “Are you really sick?”

I tossed my mallet in the air and caught it. “Not in the least. But he could hardly know that.”

“You lied to an officer?”

Gesturing toward the general location of the pit. “Not really. However one could argue that there is an agonizing disease in the Bowery and something was merely lost in translation.”

I turned toward the platform and waved Salvatore back to work now that all was clear. “Enough of the intrusion, we have a cooling tank to get set before dusk.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Daniel emerging from the inside of one of the tanks. I offered him a gentlemanly bow. “Thank you, let us know if anyone else comes snooping around.”

He grinned and dashed off.

To my relief, no mob of officers came to harass us. However, something else that would not be intimidated by words—did. As midday approached, clouds swallowed the sun. Within an hour rain drenched us making the surfaces slick and treacherous. No one abandoned their tasks, pressing on through the constant down pour. Luckily, I had already installed the trap door that would release water to the still once we had the pipe attached. Intermittently, I glanced up to find no additional water raining down from the tower. It was holding as the catch basin collected the rain. 

As much trouble as this was, we needed it so we had something to distill once the structure was finished. Soaked to the bone, I pressed through assisting Salvatore with the platform. Below us, the cooling chamber filled and I glanced over to find the narrow basin surrounding my pump filling to prime it. Mallet and hammer pounded nails into swollen wood.

Once the open platform's reinforcing was complete, it was time to set the chamber. Grabbing the swing line, our feet scrambled against the muddy ground. Bit by bit, we swiveled it over the selected tank.

Kazimir brought a sopping wet Trud over in her harness. She tossed her head, releasing a spray of water. By now we all knew what needed to be done. Kazimir secured the crane's hauling line to her harness. The others helped me weave a rope cradle for the tank. The slick lines made it more difficult, but we couldn't wait on account of rain. 

“Whatever you do,” I translated for each of them, “stay clear of the load. We stand a greater chance of it slipping in this. I can get a dent out of a tank. I cannot get a dent out of you heads.”

They swallowed and nodded, taking a few steps further to give more distance between.

“Is Trud ready?”

Kazimir waved to me through the rain.

“Alright, let her go.”

He eased her into a steady pull, slower than before as her great hooves slid with each step. But she made gradual progress lifting the tank a fraction at a time. At least we didn't have to raise this one as high as last time. But, due to the conditions it took just as long. 

Studying the height as the bottom edge cleared the platform, I called out, “Hold! Keep her there.”

At his bidding, Trud came to a halt. But her hooves slipped in the mud. “Hurry!”

This would complicate things. “Pull!” I gritted my teeth, throwing all my meager weight into hauling the crane's beam over. Behind me the others groaned and grunted with the strain. Our feet slipped too. Every fraction we gained, Trud lost a little height.

“Higher!” I barked.

Kazimir eased Trud forward. It proved a never ending battle, panic rising as the edge of the tank repeatedly came close to striking the platform. Or threatened to come down prematurely, which would have it falling awkwardly into the open chamber to crush the now exposed terracotta pipes. They could work in shards, but not as well.

Rainwater ran into my eyes. I couldn't spare a hand to clear them. Blinking through the blurred vision, I shook my head hoping to throw the drenching rain further away. The long tail of my bound hair lashed my shoulder, the muscles tense. We were so close. 

With a final grunt, I heaved on the line. The slowly descending tank in the right position.

“Down! Down! Down!” I hadn't meant to repeat myself, but in a heartbeat it could change.

Trud stepped back, slack bowed the line as the tank came down directly on the reinforced rim. We let go on the line, every man tumbling down into the mud, panting for breath.

Oisin gasped, “We have to do that again?”

I rubbed my hip which reminded me quite emphatically that it was not healed yet. “We do. But not today.” I turned to Conall. “Do you have the reservoir barrel finished?”

His hand massaged his shoulder. Even though his head hung, he nodded. “Yes.”

“Alright, we can get that into place.” Of course I had yet to get up.

The men groaned. Not that I blamed them.

I had hoped the rain would let up at least a bit. But the weather had other ideas. If anything, it intensified. Beneath the storm clouds we lost light earlier, ending our efforts before the true dusk.

Trud's eager trot carried us all back to the Bowery's main street where Kazimir dropped me off a block from my building. My steps squelched as I entered the building and climbed the stairs. Inside our apartment I found Nadir drying his drenched clothing on a line over the coal stove as my small distiller ran a batch of rain water. 

“Erik, you're soaked.”

I blinked half open eyes at him. “You are ever the observant one.” 

As I pulled off my dripping shirt, he reached for it. “Here, let me hang that with mine. How is the distillery coming?”

I stared out the window as a flash of lightning illuminated the driving rain. “Getting a good start on filling up, so it seems.”

“You're finished?” He cocked a brow at me.

“Nothing is connected yet. The still remains to be placed.” I dried my hair with a rag. It left behind a tangled mess. Grabbing a dry shirt, I went to tug it on.

“Wait, you need dry bandages.”

“Nadir,” I groaned. 

He already had them in hand. “Not another word. Sit down. You'll be glad you weren't at the pit today. They did more bailing than burials this afternoon.”

There was little I could say to that as he eased the soaked bandage from my arm, careful not to rip the scab this time.

Starting a dry bandage, he didn't lift his eyes. “You should have seen it. The men are losing hope. And not just them, women and children who had come to help too. Slipping in the mud, they could scarcely lift their heads. What little I caught of their words, they fear this nightmare will never end.”

“Soon.” I whispered to the rain pelted window. “Two more days at most we will have the resource we need to cut this chain of events.” 

Miracles took time.


	21. Chapter 21

_ **Chapter 21** _

_**~Erik~** _

If we didn't need the rain I would be cursing it in every dialect I knew. But throughout the day as I climbed the ladder to peer into the catch basin, the ever rising water was a mixed blessing even as its source made our tasks more difficult. At least today it was gentler.

Nadir's concern for those down at the pit bore into me. I remembered the deluge that nearly drowned us early on. After a day's worth yesterday and continuing into today I had to wonder if they could even safely be down there today.

That thought didn't last long as my project continued despite the foul weather. At least we were less likely to be harassed by patrolmen. With the still in place, every large component was ready to be connected into a single machine. Above us, Salvatore and Conall worked on building a framework for a roof over the final three-fourths of the distillery. The catch basin would remain exposed by design.

Using the rest of the metal cut from the damaged tank I began to roll sheets into pipes with the help of Oisin and Artyom. I folded over the edges and forced them together. Using the scrapped hides I wrapped the pipe to seal in the steam once I had the one mounted between the still and the cooling tank. Neither the feeder from the basin to the still nor the one from the cooling chamber to the barrel needed this extra sealing as I positioned those seam up to prevent leaking.

The last task was the most technical, and no one could assist me here. I sent Oisin and Artyom to fetch the tap Conti had offered us for the reservoir barrel. This left me on my own as I fitted the small pipe needed for the steam engine and made the final adjustments to every gear within it. My best guess had been off. Wet fingers slipped off the tools no matter what position I leaned over in.

What would have taken me less than an hour on my work desk took the remainder of the daylight. But as I stood up and gazed at the towering distillery now under a slat-board roof, checking every attachment and joint, I was confident it would work.

Shoulder to shoulder, we admired the fruit of our labor. This was hardly an architectural masterpiece. However, it was a utilitarian success cobbled together from scavenged materials. Very little of the previous building hadn't been used, leaving behind only a small pile of refuse. The wood we could burn. I intended to use this in a test. Until we fired up the oven I would not know whether the joints were sound or not.

Kazimir pulled up in his cart, he had gone to help at the pit once we had set the still. Tugging his hat back he whistled. “Is it done?”

“It is.” Silhouetted against the darkening clouds of dusk it was a stunning piece of work.

“Heh, just last week you showed me the plans. Though I tried, I had never imagined the size. We won't have a lot of water to go around, but surely this will help.”

“If the rain keeps up, that will not be an issue.”

Kazimir rolled his eyes. “True. Speaking of which, if you're finished how about we get out of it.”

Collecting our tools, we loaded them onto the cart and soon were jostling up the Bowery toward home.

Carried on the excitement of my success, or rather being on the cusp of it, I whisked into our apartment and grabbed my violin. Granted, I was still drenched, but the energy flowing through me would not wait another moment. I could hardly dash up to the rooftop in the rain. So I stood in the middle of the room and let the music fly. A cheery tune fit for dancing.

Nadir wandered out from the bedroom, in the process of buttoning his shirt. He blinked at my exuberance as I spun in circles in the confines of our room. His jaw hung loose. But he didn't manage a question before a knock on the door disrupted him. He opened it and Chastity peered around the corner, cocking an eyebrow at me. 

This did nothing to curtail the swell of the music on the strings.

“What is going on?” She looked to Nadir when I did not answer.

“I … ” he pointed toward my tool bag on the floor where I had dropped it, “ … could it be that the distillery is finished?”

I threw my head back and laughed, the bow still sawing out the celebration. “Tomorrow the flame of our salvation will be kindled!” 

Of course, that was the hard part. Waiting.

** ~Erik~ **

Damp wood is terribly difficult to ignite, and especially smokey once it does. The wood I had stacked in the oven yesterday evening sizzled and popped as the flames sputtered to life intermittently. Deep red, threatening to go back out again. It had been a battle all morning to keep it going, but I was not about to give up.

The clouds had broken overnight leaving us with a humid, sun beaten day. Despite the smoke, residents of the Bowery gathered around the distillery pressing into the shade as I prodded the contents of the oven trying to coax the flames back to life. We needed more heat to get the process going.

At last, a thicker beam sacrificed to the fire cracked open. The core caught with a crackle. Smoke rolled out of the arch as I backed away, coughing for my efforts. Well, I was the fool who had stuck my head in there to stir things up.

Now it was a waiting game.

“Mama?” A young boy tugged on a sleeve. “Where's the water?”

She picked the toddler up. “I don't know. But let's watch and see.”

It would come. It **had** to come. Boiling that much water would take time and even knowing it would be well over an hour before we saw the fruits of our labor, did little to quell my impatience. At least I knew the feed pipe into the still wasn't leaking.

People shifted in the street, waiting, watching as the machine sat there, belching smoke from the chamber beneath.

A hiss emerged. I stepped closer, cocking my head. The pitch gradually changed until a soft bang started a cycle like a starting locomotive in miniature. I lifted the metal flap covering the steam engine and glimpsed the piston's rod shifting in a building cycle. The gears turned and a slow current of water flowed in the bottom of the primed engine. The pump was actually working, trickling a steady flow of water over the terracotta.

Stoking the fire, I kept the heat building.

Another hour passed, I touched the cooling chamber with its hidden terracotta pipes. I knew before contact it was functioning, condensation built on the outside. Each step was working, surely inside it was too.

Rapping my knuckle against the cooling tank, I listened. The sound at the full stretch of my arm was hollow. A fraction down, the same. I struck again lower. This time the tone was muted. I backed away, grinning my fool head off. The damn thing truly was working.

Racing to the reservoir barrel my hand shook as I grabbed the tap. I hesitated to turn it. But until I did, all of this was still a guess. If the cooling tank had enough to start holding, the barrel should have something in it, unless we were breaking the law of gravity. To my knowledge, the only laws we had broken pertained to property.

Closing my eyes, I turned the tap.

A trickling splash stuck the small metal basin we had placed below the tap. I opened my eyes. The sun's rays glistened through a stream of crystal clear water.

Cupping my hand I caught some and turned off the tap before wasting more. I drank it up. Cool and fresh. As clean as the water from my own private device.

I threw my hands in the air. “It works!”

Of course, I may have been a touch impatient.

Suddenly I found myself pushed back in a rush to get to the barrel. “Stop!” I put everything I had into the word as the crowd forced toward it. “Please, everyone calm down!” Desperate eyes gazed at me as I blocked their salvation.

I took a few deep breaths and then translated into the various common Bowery tongues, “It is working, but it needs more time to fill up. If everyone rushes forward it will drain it. Rationing will be critical.”

The elders stepped forward and started to organize the eager residents into a line. The excitement was indeed understandable, but what good would this do us if someone broke it in a rush. One at a time the elder's opened the tap and let them take a small drink. This much for now. More would come later, once the machine had caught up.

Nadir came to my side, his eyes wide with surprise. “No wonder this took so long. This is many times larger than the device in our apartment.”

I laughed. “Indeed. But until I set it in motion I was not entirely certain it would work on this scale. I am glad my doubts proved unwarranted.”

He gestured toward the ever growing line. “I'm certain they are too. Now they are saved.”

“If only that were true.” I glanced his way. “While we celebrate this little victory, let us not forget the war. Just because we have clean water does not mean this is suddenly over. The disease is still in our ward. It will not simply vanish overnight. Throughout the coming week there will still be the dead to bury.”

“How long?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “However long it takes to run its course.” We had endured two full weeks of constant loss, that time frame did not count the deaths of the Sheehans, the first to succumb on the days before the crippling onset.

A child leaned under the tap catching the clear trickle in her open mouth. She swallowed a few gulps before drawing back to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. She grinned. “It's good.”

“All we have to do is keep this going. As long as we get intermittent rain, we will have fresh water.”

Nadir chuckled. “Another miracle from your hands. Soon I shall have to call you the angel of mercy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Truly we are not going back to such a juvenile game. No. I did not do this for the sake of some reckless ploy to elicit attention. I did this because no one else would.”

“Be serious. No one else could.”

“Those with the resources were more than capable. They simply choose to let greed champion them.”

Nadir glanced down at my side. “You're flexing a fist. And I am not certain I like the tone creeping into your voice.”

“Stop being a pest.” I forced the fist to release. “I have had my mind on this project since its conception.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “And nothing else?”

I huffed a breath, crossing my arms. “Maybe a fleeting thought or two. But acting on that would have delayed the project. I had my priorities.”

Shaking his head he laughed. “Don't tell me, I don't want to know. I am confident, looking at this machine, that you are telling me the truth. You would have had no time for such foolish pranks.”

“Thank you for the confidence.” I muttered. “Now, it is time to add more fuel to the fire.”

By mid afternoon we had gone through nearly all of the refuse wood. Each new damp piece released smoke engulfing the still. But the heat it supplied was worth it. The barrel at the other end was now supplying more than just a drink. Word had traveled and people brought small buckets to fill from our reservoir. The elders watched the line ensuring that no one was taking too much from the limited supply.

Daniel walked up to me, savoring sips from the mug in his hands. He grinned with dirt smudged cheeks. “I don't think I've ever had water this fresh.”

I ruffled his hair. “Thanks to you we have it.”

“Me?”

I crouched down. “Of course. Do not belittle your contribution, young man.”

“I only found stuff, and kept watch.”

“Supplies I could not have built this without. And your eyes helped keep us safe from detection. Lesser men turn away from duty in the grips of such a challenge. But you stayed the course. This success belongs to all of us.”

His eyes brimmed with tears.

The clatter of horse hooves on cobblestones stole my attention. I rose up and gazed down Canal street. The sound headed our way. More than one horse. And they were coming fast. I held my breath. Perhaps the fire cart thinking something was burning? That would be the only emergency that would send any sort of response. Fires spread fast from building to building in the overcrowded wards.

The crowd on the street parted in an alarmed wave as a group of mounted men charged down the street. Men dressed in finery as they urged their horses forward, flanked by officers dressed in blue with brass buttons shining in the sunlight.

I did not move one step.

The lead horse came to a clattering stop as the man mounted on the gelding's back reined it back roughly, a veiled threat to run me over. I stared up into the disgusted scowl from a man I knew all too well.

Atherton Wellspring narrowed his eyes. First at the distillery. Then … at me.


	22. Chapter 22

_ **Chapter 22** _

_**~Erik~** _

Well now, this was an unfortunate development.

Atherton Wellspring glared down at me from his high horse. Unfazed by his arrogant posture, I folded my arms. “I am terribly sorry, but as you can see we are in the midst of a rather important community meeting. Appointments are required for you to state your business.”

The man wasn't alone. Thompson and Strick were behind him with another man I did not know. A portly fellow, on a skittish horse, looked rather dismayed at the sight. I assumed him to be the landlord. A half dozen police officers rounded out the bunch. That part worried me. One word from the councilmen and I could find myself in worse quarters than the tenement apartment. That threat, though very real, would not deter me from protecting my precious device.

It appeared that Wellspring appointed himself the mouthpiece. He pointed to the distillery with his walking stick. “Trust filthy thieving immigrants to make trouble. Permits are required to construct anything for the manufacture of alcohol.”

“Well then, it is a good thing that is not what this is for, councilman.”

He tugged back on the reins, the horse danced at the mixed signal. “I will have none of your twisting words after what you pulled. Don't think we have forgotten!”

Mastering myself, I stood at my full height, blocking his way to the distiller. “I imagine I left quite the impression on the city council. That much had been my intention, I assure you. My other was that we should have come to some manner of an arrangement—like proper gentlemen. ”

His lip curled. “You insolent wretch! How dare you enter our chambers in the stolen clothing of a gentleman.”

“Stolen?” I placed a hand to my chest. “Certainly not. I appeared before you in my own proper attire. Well, it is regretfully a bit out of good repair. Had I the means I most certainly would have addressed that detail properly.”

Wellspring spat toward my feet, I had to nimbly shift out of the way.

I looked down before fixing him with a mildly offended stare. “That was quite unnecessary.”

“You are all trespassing.” The man I had assumed to be the land owner urged his horse forward. His mount spun in a restless circle.

I addressed him far more cordially than he deserved. “You must be the proprietor of the tannery that once stood here.”

His brow furrowed, clearly not anticipating my calm reaction. All the more reason I maintained it. Men do not know what to do when something defied their expectations. Thus, when an overinflated buffoon is convinced he is dealing with a mannerless animal, present the finest etiquette and watch him struggle with how to respond. He blinked before replying, “I … am?”

“Ah good. We hoped to have some words with you in regards to the proper compensation for those who were injured and the families of those who died in the collapse of your business.” I longed to allow more force in my voice. But I disciplined myself, remaining every bit the gentleman out of sheer spite. The trick was certainly paying off. Thrust into confusion, they looked to one another.

The owner threw a perplexed expression at Wellspring.

I cleared my throat. “Pardon my assumption, but is that not why you came here? To take responsibility for your neglect?”

He pointed at the lot. “What have you done to my building?”

I did not so much as glance over my shoulder. I did not trust them. Around me the other residents of the Bowery had fallen back, understandably cowed by these powerful men. I was certain that the police presence did not help ease the tension. Reason was the ground I stood firmly on. “What building? All that we found here were abandoned ruins.”

His jaw hung loose as he turned to Wellspring. “Are you listening to this tripe?”

Wellspring snapped a nod. “I certainly am. And I will not tolerate such blatant disrespect from a man who will not even show his face.”

That stung for a moment. But not enough to visibly register, I hoped. “Disrespect? I beg to differ, gentlemen. Name but one moment in this discussion where I have offered clear slight and I will make due with an apology.” I paused, glancing between the councilmen and the owner. “Nothing? As I suspected. Now, as for trespassing—you are currently in the Bowery ward on our street, not a one of you lives here. So I ask, since you are insisting on remaining in our, as you put it, _deplorable_ presence—what is your business here?”

The owner thrust a finger toward the distillery. “I want my property back!”

“You mean the tannery? Ah, well, since we did not find any such tannery _standing_ here, you are quite mistaken on your claim. We merely used the abandoned remainder of a death trap.”

That only served to anger our uninvited company. I did not expect any different outcome. “Liar!” the owner shrieked.

“Liar?” I remarked nonchalantly, “I have been nothing but honest with you, sir.” I fixed him with an accusatory stare. “Unlike you to those you employed. But what were they to you—aside from a source of cheap profits.”

“He's responsible for this! I want that thief arrested!”

“Thief? My good sir, one cannot steal what has been abandoned to neglect.”

“Atherton! Do something!”

Wellspring pressed his horse toward me.

I did not move a single step as I focused my attention on him. “Speaking of neglect, councilman … what you see here is a direct result of the lack of responsibility for the people of this ward.”

“There are no people here.” Wellspring scowled. “Only vermin.”

“One could argue I found the same populating the council chamber, but that is a mere trifle.”

He stiffened. “That is a step too far.”

I kept my gaze level. “At least it is a step, more than a collective of myopic narcissists who are so blind they court their own demise have taken.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you really think that diseases will not invade the more prominent households as a matter of courtesy?”

Wellspring averted his chin. “Not as a matter of courtesy, but as a law of nature. Those who inhabit this ward are a cesspit of vile behavior which calls down the wrath of the All Mighty.”

I half-hooded my eyes. Were that the case I should have been struck down in my childhood. I disproved his belief by simply existing. More to the point, he disproved it himself. “Your ignorance is appalling.”

“Behind you is proof of this! An altar to the evil vice of alcohol which leads men to ever more vile influences of the devil himself.”

“None are more vile than self-deceit, nor half as self-destructive.”

That struck a cord. The horse shifted as he yanked the reins, pulling himself up to his full height. “I will not be lectured by a gutter rat.”

“And you are not.” I kept my eyes on him and I offered a shallow bow. “I am not who you assume I am. But to a man such as you that will make no difference.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Narrowing my eyes I released a bit of power to my voice. “There is no reaching the heart of a public servant who believes in the philosophy of devil take the hindmost.”

At the word devil he jerked backward. Were he a woman I was quite convinced he would have been clutching his pearls.

I was not finished. “There is a special place in the afterlife for scum like you. The fourth circle is your destiny.” Clearing my throat I quoted, “'They strained their chests against enormous weights, and with mad howls rolled them at one another. Then in haste they rolled them back, one party shouting out: 'Why do you hoard?' and the other: 'Why do you waste?'”

Their jaws clenched as I glanced over them. But it was Wellspring I observed more keenly. In a swift motion he drew his walking stick over his shoulder and brought it down in a strike at me.

His cane impacted my blade, now clamped in my left hand. My arm iron firm against his impotent attack. With a deft push I shoved his stick aside, but continued to wield the blade, staring along the top of the weapon into Wellspring's startled eyes. “I warn you not to try that again or next time I let this blade fly I will not restrain myself.” Not one of the policemen urged their horses forward, they remained flanking the shrinking councilmen. “You have intruded on a ward you deemed unworthy of your attention in restitution for an abandoned property. A property which the collapse of cost lives and livelihoods. You ignored the pleas of this community when we justly reached out to your council. In fact you mocked them and threw the messenger out of city hall.”

“You trespassed—”

“I am not finished!” I shouted.

Whether or not he wanted, his horse took a step back.

“Your shameful actions left a destitute community to suffer needlessly without the means to save themselves. What did you expect us to do? Simply die?”

The councilmen stared wide eyed at me. Perhaps hearing it struck a moment of reason. But I knew that seed would not grow on barren ground.

It was my turn, my spit marred the perfect surface of Wellspring's shoe. “You underestimate the backbone of your wealth, you fraud.” Still holding the blade toward Wellspring, I gestured with my right hand to the Bowery residents without glancing at them. “You denied us access to clean water forcing us to find our own. We will collect it from the sky for ourselves.”

Thompson choked before he managed to get it out. “You're mad!”

That was debatable. At the moment his remark was not going to paralyze me. “Say what you will, blind man. It is already working. The abandoned residents of the Bowery have tasted what you denied them. Will you take that away now?”

Regaining some of his bravado, Wellspring looked to the owner of the plot and nodded. “Yes!”

I flexed my fingers on the hilt of the blade and declared. “Over my dead body!”

All he had to do was charge his horse and I would be trampled to death. But I was determined. I would not move no matter how my heart raced against this impending threat.

Wellspring raised his hand, “Officers!”

Their horses stepped backward. Fear in the men's eyes. I had not thought I was putting that much into my voice.

Then, on the periphery of my vision I caught movement. On my right. On my left. First the men I had spent days building this with, stood shoulder to shoulder beside me. Their stern eyes fixed on Wellspring. Kazimir swung a knotted rope. Salvatore and Conall clutched their hammers. Oisin and Artyom had each grabbed a brick. Daniel pushed forward to stand beside me. Then more came forward. Other men, women, and even children scowled at the mounted threat armed with whatever they could find. Hundreds of the neglected stood united.

I smiled as Wellspring's confidence evaporated into shock. “What did you call us, councilman? Vermin? While one rat may be of little consequence. A swarm is another issue altogether. By our own meager means we have dealt with that which you so blatantly ignored. You will leave us in peace.”

Wellspring circled around to look at the officers. All of them shying further back. Six of them was nothing compared to a desperate mob. The men in uniform would not pay for the council's folly with their lives. On our side the view was different. If we surrendered now, we would pay with ours.

I held the knife, unwavering. A simple blade. Not even my Punjab cord, or my dueling sword. I could end this coward's life before any one of his backup could reach me. One swift strike.

But there would be no poetry to that vengeance against a fool who even now seemed unable to grasp his folly.

When he wrestled his horse around to face me, I flicked the end of the knife and this time I let the inflection fly. “You **will** leave this place.”

The order resonated, he cringed back as though I had struck him. The others wheeled their horses around and fled. Alone, Wellspring panicked, tugging the reins left, then right. His gelding fought him until at last the horse tossed his head and took off in a blind run down Canal street.

Slowly, I lowered the blade and exhaled. We had won this battle. My eyes narrowed at Wellspring's retreating back. We had yet to win this war.


	23. Chapter 23

_ **Chapter 23** _

_ **** _

_**~Nadir~** _

Erik's violin carried through from the main room. Days had passed since his device provided the first streams of fresh water. Intermittent rain supplied a steady stock for the distillery. Erik had rotated his days between assisting at the burial pit and stoking the fire on his device, by now they had turned to the ever available supply of animal feces. Concern remained that our project might be in danger since the stand off with the officials.

Erik, however, seemed far less worried about that than I had figured he would. Instead he seemed more intent on tracking the rate of the burials, which had yet to significantly decline. He repeatedly reminded the elders that it would be at least a week for those previously infected to run the course.

At length I sat up. The violin had stopped. There was no flicker of the candle. Rising up, I made my way along the edges of the bed and leaned against the door frame.

“Erik?” The faint cast of light from the streetlamps below did not reveal his outline. I stepped further into the room. His violin lay on the desk. “Are you here?” It was silly asking that. There was nowhere to hide.

My shoulders sagged. “Erik it's the middle of the night! Where have you gone?”

* * *

_**~Erik~** _

Atherton Wellspring possessed a remarkably ornate bathroom. Imported tiles on the wall formed a colorful decorative frieze. The clawed bathtub sat against the wall stocked with a number of scented oils. There was a sink with a drain pipe cleverly concealed in the pedestal. And it came as no surprise the room had a vanity mirror. The most important accessory in this elaborate room was a flushable toilet. A bowl upon which one could sit with a large chamber mounted to the wall overhead activated by a pull chain. The miracle of modern plumbing. One had to assume Wellspring appreciated this luxurious device.

The poor man sat on the toilet, not a stitch on his lower half. His head bowed over a bowl. Under a merciless barrage, both ends of his bowels took alternating turns. His color pale as a the virgin winter snow, when he stopped retching long enough to breathe. He gasped in air, shaking from the torment.

“My, what a marvelous throne you have in here.”

Wellspring jerked upright in shock, his eyes wide for a moment. Then his bowels screamed at him, he doubled back over to an explosion into the bowl beneath his legs.

I daresay my presence in his private chambers troubled him, but not half as much as his other _unexpected visitor_. I leaned against the door frame studying my fingernails and waiting for him to recover enough to look up again. That took quite some time.

When at last he looked , tears in his eyes, I held out a hand. “Oh no, do not trouble yourself by getting up. I see you are rather indisposed at the moment.”

“My servants … ” His voice was hoarse through a throat so raw I expected it was bleeding.

I smiled. “Are quite occupied at the moment.” This was one time the use of my voice was essential. I did not wish to be disturbed. Luckily lulling unsuspecting victims to sleep was child's play for me.

“How … ” he gasped, “how did you get in here?”

With a laugh I spread my hands and bowed. “Why you practically invited me in.” That is what happens when a man leaves his balcony doors open to the night wind after getting on my bad side. “As I said, do not trouble yourself concerning the notion of hospitality. I am already quite familiar with the layout of your less than humble abode, councilman. A pity your architect lacked discipline … and taste. Oh, pardon me, I may have have just insulted my gracious host. Was this all your decision?”

Wellspring narrowed his eyes and began to shout for his staff. It ended with his head in the bowl for an extended period of time.

“Dear me, I appear to have caught you at a bad time.”

Sweating from the effort, he looked over the rim of the bowl. “I will … have you … arrested … for … trespassing.” He winced as his intestines audibly twisted.

Crossing my arms I lifted my chin. “That would prove a rather amusing gamble. Who will you send them after? You do not know my name. A masked man? Well, there are several in the Bowery, and as you have never seen me unmasked, ensuring my identity would prove difficult.”

“You are … ooohhhhh God … ” The other end took its turn. Considering the odor I doubted he had much skin left down there. The effort left him hissing. Were this man not such an insufferable ass I would have felt sorry for him.

“I will be honest with you, Atherton Wellspring. I once told you you did not know me. I am not a man to be trifled with. Such an attempt to apprehend me would be an extreme folly on your part. Let us explore that I have already infiltrated your most private of chambers. And if I have done so with you, what is to stop me from reaching the rest of the council?”

His breath caught in his chest. “You … you wouldn't!”

I placed a hand to my chest. “At the moment, you are correct. I will not. You volunteered yourself for this rather important lesson.”

He shut his eyes as his guts twisted, teeth clenched he spat out, “You come when I am … ill … ”

“Ahh, but I came _because_ you are ill.” My smile intensified. “I already knew the condition you would be rendered to. My that is a lovely Rembrandt in your parlor. The _Abduction of Europa_ , if I am not mistaken. Did you have a pleasant smoke from your pipe two nights back?”

Wellsprings eyes twitched. “How … how did you know?”

I held out a vial of the Bowery's well water. “Because. This was not my first visit to your residence.” I plenty of time to privately admire the painting while I had made certain the pipe's mouthpiece soaked good and long in the fouled fluid before placing it back in the carved wooden box.

He made a rather unflattering gurgle.

“But do not fret. You will be back to your detestable self soon. You have plenty of servants to care for you. And this marvelous device to carry away the case of your illness. I am confident you will recover after a sufficiently miserable couple of days.” I scowled at him. “The same cannot be said for the nearly two-thousand Bowery residents who died because of your ignorance.”

“I will have … ”

“What?” I stood at my full height, glaring down at him. “You will accomplish precisely what from your captive position? I challenge you to even stand without excrement dripping down your legs.”

His head bowed over the bowl of vomit grasped in his hands.

“Now that I have your incredibly difficult to attain attention, let me make something perfectly clear. Men like you are unfit to lead. Thus, you will take responsibility for your neglect. The moment you are able to emerge from your captivity on the only throne that is worthy of you, you will abdicate your seat on the council.”

“But … ”

I glared him into silence. “I will be watching you. I warn you not to entertain any clever ideas. If any of your friends attempt to have me arrested or disrupt the rain distillery you will learn what an irrepressible pest I can be. None of you want to make a true enemy of me if you desire a moment of peace for the remainder of your lives.”

“This … this is extortion.”

I clapped my hands slowly. “I have been made to understand that such actions are the only way to get ones point across to those who feel elevated above society. If you do not like to be on the receiving end, might I suggest changing the system.”

He groaned as his stomach tortured him. “You will never get away with this!”

Taking a few steps closer to him, I gazed down with a smile. “I already have, Atherton Wellspring. All of this would have been completely avoidable had you simply performed your duty as a proper _public servant_. Instead you chose to insult and injure.” Fortunately as I walked toward the door I did not limp. It would be rather inconvenient to give him another identifying trait. I paused and looked over my shoulder. “You have a lovely wife and daughter. Would be a shame if something were to happen to them. Such frail flowers, I daresay they would not survive a struggle against this.”

Wellspring attempted to rise, but his efforts failed him. He cried out in agony as his shaking legs deposited him back onto the toilet where he would remain for at least the remainder of the night. God willing—longer.

“You are fortunate. I am far easier to reason with than a disease that apparently does not trouble the moral man.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Unlike the residents of the Bowery, you have been offered a choice. Your answer?”

He bowed his head, gripping his stomach. Tears ran down his flushed cheeks. “I will … resign.”

“Very good.” Before he could look up, I vanished around the corner.

I heard his panicked pleas, but he didn't know what to even call out. It did not last long before the cholera punished him for me.

A few days later, I emerged from the burial pit toward evening, the numbers had blessedly greatly declined. Oisin had a copy of the newspaper in his hand. There was still enough daylight for me to read aloud.

“ _Atherton Wellspring appeared before the city council to announce he is resigning his position due to health reasons.”_ With a dark chuckle, I folded the paper and handed it back to Oisin. “Well well, I do hope the poor fellow is feeling better.” I did have to wonder if the skin had grown back yet. What I would have given to have seen his attempts to hide the burning pain as he walked into their chamber.

Nadir narrowed his eyes at me. Just above his breath he hissed, “Tell me you didn't.”

If I had, I would have been lying. 


	24. Chapter 24

_ **Chapter 24** _

_** ~Erik~ ** _

The third star shimmered in the cloudless sky joined by the waxing moonlight. In the heat of the night the Bowery surged with the crowd. The moment Blanjini and I struck the first chords of a harvest festival song, a chorus of cheers rose to the heavens. The thunder of the drums echoed off the walls of the buildings. Our ward gorged on the feast of music and gaiety as once more the gamblers brought out their games of chance. For once again the Bowery earned its reputation of being a ward of the vice, a ward of defiance.

I threw my head back in laughter. The celebration tonight took on a new light. It had been days since the last burial. News passed through of those who had been ill and managed to recover. Many were gaunt, shadows of their former selves. But in the music and lights they came alive with the promise of tomorrows others would never have.

Even in the joyous night my eyes caught the spaces between. Families shattered by the absences left behind. But they danced. Their feet moved to the rhythm and they lost themselves to the spell woven in the notes. Children laughed and spun in circles making up lyrics.

We were lesser in number as we recalled those who no longer stood among us. Tonight we played to honor their spirits.

Blanjini leaned back against the rusted iron, a soft smile on his face. “Oh how I missed her voice all these weeks.”

I continued to play, eyeing him over the strings. “As I missed playing her beside you.”

“It has been good having you play beside me these past few days. Once more the coins rain down. The world has returned to normal.”

My bow came to a halt, the other musicians continued to play. “If only it had.” My eyes roved over the spaces, too many compared to how it had been a month ago. “After this, we can never return to normal my friend. We can only move on.”

Blanjini nodded and held up a finger. “Like our city councilmen friends?”

I chuckled before I caught myself. More than Wellspring had suddenly decided to retire. It seemed they took my warning seriously. I had no need to carry forth with further demonstrations of my reach. And fortunately the distillery remained untouched. “Indeed.”

“Your friend believes you to have something to do with their removal.”

I laid my violin across my lap and folded my hands. “Nadir is of a rather suspicious nature.”

“And you are of a curious one.” I glanced to the side at him. His blind eyes studied me, continuing, “The nightingale is said to hold sway over even an emperor when he flew through the window.”

“That is a mere story with a talking bird.”

He held up a hand. “And still, stories are often based on some fact. It leads me to wonder … where have you flown?”

I brought my violin up to my chin and in the pause of the music began to play another folk tune, the other musicians followed. I smiled to myself. 

Blanjini's knowing smile grew wider. “Your silence speaks louder than any words.”

“My silence means no one has to deny.” I whispered, knowing he could hear me.

He lifted his violin and prepared to join me. “Oh come. Like any would betray you. Why hold such doubts after the day you lit the fire that saved the Bowery? You are the most celebrated of men.”

The notes shivered in the air on my strings. “A divine comedy, if I ever heard one.”

And yet, there in the distance, the elders stood together. When they met my eyes, they raised mugs of ale in a toast to me and drank to my health. Beneath the mask heat rose to my cheeks. I sought refuge in watching Nadir and Chastity dancing, the glaze of alcohol already bright in his eyes. 

Life once more danced beneath the moon, defying the abysmal odds of survival. We had somehow weathered the storm. Though the thousands buried in that mass grave bore no markers—we would remember their loss. 

Death cannot be outrun forever. But as I played beneath a ceiling of stars, I knew I had narrowly avoided its grasp, played a desperate gamble and won a reprieve for some. I smiled as my bow danced on the strings. I stood relegated to the shadows for now … but that was not where I would remain. 

This nightingale dreamed of the light.

_**The End** _


End file.
